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No. 132. 








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IS 


THE WANDERER'S RETUIIN. 


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THE WANDERER'S RETUR]^ 



A DRAMA, 



Jn £onx ^cts. 



FOUNDED ON TENNYSON'S POEM OF *'ENOGJI ARDEN.' 



BY 



S . N . COOK, 



AUTHOa OF "out IN THE STREETS," " BKOKEN PBOMISES," " UNCLS 
JACK," ETC., ETC. 



CORBECTLY PRINTED FROM THE PROMPTER'S COPT, WITH THE CAST OF 

CHAUACTICUS, COSTUMES. SCENE AND PROPEUTY PLOTS, RELA- 

XIVK POSITIONS or THE DRAMATIS PKRSON.B, SlUES 

OF ENTRANCE AND EXIT, DISPOSITIONS 

OF CHARACTERS, ETC., ETC. 



il >i 



i|.kiS:.itV 



NEW Y O K K f 

Copyright secured 1379, by 

II A P P Y II O U R S COMPANY, 

No. 6 BEKKMAN STREET. 



Ml 



T> 



THE WAIsTDEEEE'S EETURN 



DEAMATIS PEHSONJE. 

Enoch Arden 

Philip Ray 

Peter Lane 

Dr. Winthrop 

A Sailor 

Annie Arden 

Miriam Lane 

Nappy Ralston- 

Boy, (in Second Act, four years old ; 

Fourth Act, fifteen years old) 1 p.„_f.„._ rhiU-t-^t, 

Girl, (in Second Act. five years old; ^- S" Enochs Children 

Fourth Act, sixteen years old) 



COSTUMES.— MODERN. 

From the commencement of the Drama to the end, eighteen years are supposed to 
elapse — Costumes and make-ups to be arranged accordingly. 



PROPERTIES. 
ACT I. 

Plain carpet down. Chintz curtains on each side of bay window, r.f. Fireplace 
set complete, with mantel, s.e.r. Round table, with cover, R.C. Four old-fashioned 
chairs. Work-box and needlework on table for Miriam. 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — Curtains to window, t.e.r. Fireplace set, with mantel, t.e.l. Rug 
and arm-chair before the fire. Sofa, i«.c., at back of stage. Table, R., before the 
window Work-basket, and work materials in it, on table for Annie. Joys for the 
two children to play with at back of stage. Pipe and tobacco for Enoch. Foot- 

StOCll. 

SCENK IL— Nil. 

Scene 111 --Plain garden seat, T.E.R. Table, i..c. Three garden chairs. Rustic 
garden arm-chair near table. Small profile full-rigged ship discovered at back ot 
scene, u.E.R. Boat-truck and oars. Laurels, &c. Flowers in tubs round cottage. 



IV 



THE WANDKiaaVS BETUKN. 



Cradlfi up stage, i,.c. Water pump fixed K.c, opposite second entrance. Large 
water-tub. painted green, on stand at back of cotiai^e, I,. Signal-gun, to fire from 
the profile ship. Lock of hair fi.xed up iu a small piece of paper. A large brown 
paper bundle, corded, behind cottage, l. 

ACT III. 

Scene L— Two tables, r c. and L.C. Six chairs. Feather duster. An old and 
large umbrella for I^appy Rai.stu.s, 

bCENK II. — Nil 

Scene III. — Curtains drawn apart to c. window. Round table, with cover on it, 
R.C. Lamp burning on table. Four chairs. Family liible on table. Blue lire for 
two visions. • 

ACT IV. 

Scene L— Broken pump fixed s.e.r. Shutters up to cottage window, i.. Sign- 
board hanging out, in bold letters, " FOR SALE." A short and old form, L.C. A 
broken stool, k.c. Broken paling, u.E R. A bundle of straw strewed over the stage 
in front of paling. Broken implements, &c., in various parts of stage, betokening 
wreck and ruin. 

Scene II.— Nil. 

Scene IIL — Table and cover. Four chairs. Work-box and needle-work on table 
for Miriam. 

Scene IV. — Set quickly behind the gauze scene on its discovery. Large round 
table with cover on it. Lamp burnin^j. Four chairs round table. I'ooks for four in 
the circle to read. White curtains wide enough and long enough to open in centre, 
fixed bahind window. 

Scene V.— Nil. 

Scene VI. — Cot with coverings, for Enoch Arden to die upon, placed r.c. Table 
with cover, on the right of the cot. Large Bible upon it. Medicine bottles, basiu 
and spoon, jug of water, gUs.s, &c., on table. Chairs. 



Scene. — 



SCENERY 
ACT I. 

Horizon Backing. 



Set Water. 



Set Water. 



I Bay Window I 
Ch°air ^V y-^ 



o Oo 
Chau- Table Chair 



O. 
Claair 



L_J 

l>uur 

O 
Chair 



THE WANDEBEU H EETURN. 



Interior of Lane's Tnn. Large bay window, rf. Door, i..f. Fireplace set s.e.r. 
T:il>lo and two chairs, i?.c.. before window. Three other chairs. Set waters and 
horizon backing seen behind the window. 



ACT II. 



SCRXK I.— 



Interior Backing. 



n> L 1 

i i>our 

-"' Oo 

Chair Table Chair 
O 


o 
Chair 


Chair Dooi- 

Arm-chair Vj 


d\ 


L 1 

Sofa 





A Chamber at E.noch Akden's. Doors r.f. and l.f. Window u.e.r. Fireplace 
setu.E.L. 



Scene IL — 



■WgotTFIatT 



Cut Wood 




Wood and Cut Woods, in first and second grooves. 



vi 



Scene IIL— 



THE WANDEEEr's EETTJRl 

Horizon Backing. 



O O . o 

Profile Ship. 



Set Water. 



Set Water. 



Rope 



Boat \_ 



Ground Row 



Tub & bland 



Rustic seat 



Cradle 



Stool 
o 

^ Oo 

Rustic chair Table Stool 



o 




Cottage and porch, l. Shutters to close at windows of cottage. Arbor u.e.r. 
Ground row, from third or fourth entrances, running across stage. Set waters be- 
hind ground row. Horizon backing at back of stage. 



Scene I. — 



ACT III. 

Interior Backing. 





O 
Chair 


1 






J o 




Centre 


buor 


Chair 




oO 


o 






Oo 


Chair Table 


Ch 


lir 




Chair Table Chair 



THE WANDERER S RETURN. 



Vii 



A Centre Door Chamber at Lane's Inn— Second grooves Tables and chairs, R.C. 
and I..C. 



Scene II.— 



Interior Backing. 




A Chamber at Dr. Winthrop's— First grooves. Doors in R. and L. flats. 

Scene III. — 

Horizon Backing. 

Set Water. 



Set Water. 



Chair 

0.0 o 
Chair Table Chair 


Wniuuw 


O 
Chair 


LJ 


Door 

Chair ° 








A Chamber at En'Och Akden's. A wide latticed window, to open, in C. Door 
L.F. Set waters behind window. Horizon back of waters. Third grooves. TabU 
and two chairs, R.C. ^ 



viii 



THE WANDERER S BETUB!?. 



Thk Visions im Sceiie HI — 

fiecond Vision Badcincr— ^en nnd Ror1<. 
First Vision liackins:— -rropical, with Palm Tree. 



Gauze let from 

top of flat to 

Rostrum 



f ~| Kostru 

behiii 

L.^ I flat 



ostrum 
d 



' Scene to be set from the 
beginning of the Act 



" 1 

Chair 


„ 1 


° L 1 

Chair Door 


VVinaov>r 






Chair ° 


oOo 






Chair Table Chair 








As seen through a gauze let in at the top of R. flat. Rostrum to reach the bottom 
of gauze. The first vision— at the beginning of Scene — tropical scenery to be used 
—a palm tree necessary. The second vision — at the end of act— marine and rocky 
scenery required. 

ACT IV. 
Scene I.—- 

Horizon Backing. 

Set Water. 

Set Water. 





Ground Row 


Stand Straw 


1 — 1 


Stool 


o O ^ 


■t Broken paling 


o 


Form 




Q- 






r.roken Pump 









'JHK \YANJ)Ki:iKS RKTUIlN. 



ix 



Cottage and porch, i,. Shutters to windows closed. Signboard hnnging over 
door with the words 'FOR SALE" Broken paling, u e.r. Ground rows from 
third or fonith entrances running across stage. Set waters behind ground row. 
Horizon backind at back of stage. 

Scene II. — A P'ront Wood — First grooves. 

Scene HI.— 




MiRi.\M Lane's Inn in Third Grooves. Door.T.H.L. 

SCENa IV.— 

Chamber Backing. 



Table and chairs. 



O ^ ^ O 

•o- 




Phii.ip Ray's Cottage on the Outskirts (G.arden Surroundings) in First Grooves. 
A large bay window with white curtains down. Behind the window a chamber 

backing. 

Scene V. — A Front Street — in First Grooves. 



THK WANDKHKUS llETUKN'. 



SCEXE VI. 



Horiro-i Riicklncr. 



Set Water. 



Q Latciced window 


o I 

Chair 


1 


Chair V y Cliair 
Cot 

( ] Chair 
O \ / 

Chair iauie 


D^<>i 



c. 



Miriam Lane's Inn. Wide latticed window, R.F., through which is seen the sea 
and horizon beyond. Door in flat, l. 



EXPLANATION OF THK STAGE DIRECTIONS. 



R., means first entrance right, and right. L , first entrance left, and left. S E.R., 
second entrance right. S.E.L., second entrance left. T.E.K.., third entrance right. 
T.E.L.. third entrance left. F.E.R., fourtli entrance right. F E L., lourth entrance 
left. UE.R., upper entrance right. U.EL., upper entrance left. l^.F., right fiat, 
I..F.. left flat. R C.riglit of centre. L.C., left of centre. C, centre. CD., centre 
doors. C.R.. centre towards right. C.L., centre towards left. Observing you are 
supposed to face the audience. 



The Wai^deree's RETUim. 



ACT I. 

Scene. — Peteu Lane's Ihu. An upartmcid xc'dh a larrje bay loindoio, 
C.J ovniookiuij a rock;/ .sen-coast, loiik liorizon beyond. JJoor in i^. 
flat. Ftrfplace, t.e.u. Old-fashioned 2)laln iavernjui-nUure. Music 
«.« CHit an rises. 

]\IiRiAM Lane discovered icorklng at R. of b.c. table. Dr. "Winthbop 
pusses wiuduwfrovi it. 

Elder Db. "Wintkkop, door i..r., and attracts Mikiam'.s attention by 
coxujhiufj — .s//t?, hdherto absorbed in thoiajlU, starts. 

Dr. W. (r-.c.) Miuliini Liuse, excuse me for troubliug you ; but 
c;ui vou tell jut) where ill liiul your liu.sbiuid ? 

Miriam. (R.c. ) Oli, Doctor deiir, how you made lue jump! I 
thouglit, pwrliiips, it xuiglit linve been my biLsbaud ( iSiyhs. J J3ut 
no .such yjH)i{ I'ortutie. I think by tliis tiuie you would liuvu kuowu 
that iu somti rdehouKe haiuly by you'd iind old Peter L:u\e. 

Dr. ]y. U_;h ! Tlie roL'iie ! ' lit', well deserves tiie h:iuguiau's ropy 
for tre.iiiuiij .such ii wii'o us ]).Iiruiin L.uie is known to be, wuh suoh 
yreat disre.-,pect. 

iliriuiii. Oh, Dr. AVuithrop, you know not what it is to possess a 
Avife'H anxieties, her cares. ( !Si<jlis. ) You know not, indeeil, what it 
is to be a wife ! (Places her icork on table, and cor.ies doicn it.c. 



12 THE WANDKRER's RETURN. 



Dr. W. That's very true! (Aside.) Ami at my time of life, 
I don't thiuk it at all likely I sliiill ever become one. 

Miriam. Always to be oblij^ed to liKteii to tlie drivelling talk of 
one whose tongue iti always too lliu;k to wag witli ease, caused from 
drinking too much village tap-room ale. 

Dr. W. Ah, lie's a isad old rogue thai man of yours: I must be- 
lieve all that the gossips of the port have said. 

Miriam. And what, pray, have the gossips of the port now said of 
me or 1dm ? 

])r. W. Oh, not mneb, 'tis true ; only that the industrious Miriam 
Lane deserves a better man tbau the tippliug Peter Lane, and which 
1 also think is very true ! 

Miriam. (Bristling tip. ) And I would like to know what business 
have the gossips of this port to meddle with affairs of mine or of my 
husbands ? And what right have they to wag their tongues about 
this 7nan of mine ? ( Goes to table and sits. 

Dr. W. ( IFId.siles— aside. ) A pretty mess I came near making 
here. I sj'mpathize with her or tell her what the gossips say and she 
berates me sadly. Ah, tliey're all alike, these womeii folk, the Avhole 
world over, there's no difierence in 'em. A man they've sworn to love 
they will abuse theujselves most shamefully sometimes, but let 
another person say a just word against him, and then the war begins, 
and all the fat jumps out of the frying-pan and hops into the fire ! 
(Places his forefinger on side of nose. J I'm very glad I ain't a 
wife ! 

Miriam. (Comes down B.C., from table.) I'd have them know. 
Dr. Winthrop, that Peter Lane is my husband, and his drinking is 
my business — my business only— and his own, not theirs. They'd 
like to make disturbance with him, would they ; but they sha'u't. 
So if they want to make aiiy djsturbtance with anyone, why let them 
come and make it with xx}^ I 

Enter Peter Lai?e, door l.f. ; he is someichat inebriated. 

Peter, (l.) Who's makin' a disturbance, Avife ? 

Miriam, ( Papidly crosses to him, ) You are Peter Lane. (Arms 
a-kimbo, and shakes her head at }um. ) You are alwa.v s making a dis- 
tiubance, for you are always drunk, you hog ! But little do you care 
for what the people say, or little do you care for the feelings of your 
poor wife, so that you can have your fill of grog, you — you, kiider- 
idn. (- Cries. 

Peter. Why, wife, yon wouldn't have me go back on the impor- 
tance of any great event, would you ? J'm sure I never drank except 
on great pcsasionK, 

Muiam. Oh, dear ! You've had some great occasion, then, most 
every day in the year, and every year since we've been wed, and that's 
now nigh gone upon thirty! Why, you sulphurous "ne'er do well," 
you are so fu}l of swill that if you only looked at a match you'd go 



THE wanderer's retuun. 13 

off into a state of spoutaiieons combustion auci set the bouse on firej 
that you would. (Shakes her hend at him, xoilh arms a-khnbo. 

Feltr. (Lniighs riproarioasltj. ) Well, that's a good joke, truly, 
wile. Upon luy .soul, I can't lieli) laughing, c 2b Dr. \Vinthuop. ) 
You see, Irieiid Doctor, what a jolly wife I've got, and she niakes 
poor me jolly too. Ho, bo, bo, bo ! She's bound to have her joke if 
she dies lor it, so that she can only play it npou me ! 

Miriam. (Enraged.) Joke! Joke, you brute ? Yes, 1 would say 
joke if / were you ! A pretty mau you are for a brute. ( Scorn/nlly. ) 
You — you hedgehog ! 

Peter. (HoUlbig las sides xclth suppressed laughter.) Thauk'ee, 
wife, I was aUus counted hau'som' when a bo}-. 

( Grimaces in an inebriated manner. 

Miriam. You'll be the death of me, I know you will. 

( Cries and goes up c. 

Dr. W. (Comes down r.c.) For shame upon you, Peter Lane, do 
you want to break your own wife's heart ? 

Peter. No, Doctor, that's too great an undertaking for a little 
fellow like me — I'm only dot and carry one. My wife is a b c, x y z, 
and all the etceteras, 

Miriam. There, Doctor, only listen to him, just bear bow be talks. 

Peter. And how does he talk, my chickabiddy chuck ? (About to 
chuck lier under the chin — She spuns ]dm indignantly and bounces vp 
ih.e stage — Aside.) Hy wife objects to being a chickabiddy. Ill 
Call her an old ben the next time, see if that rooster'll please her 
better ! 

Miriam. 'Twould be all the same with him. Doctor, be wouldn't 
treat me any better if I were on my dying bed. 

Peter. You'd have the last word then, old gal — hie— if you died 
for it — hie! But as I said just now 1 never diink except on great 
occasions, an' — an' important ewents ; and I'd like to know if this 
isn't a gr-e-e-at occasion — hie — an' — an' an iniportant e-went, when 
the bravest lad that rides the waves o* yonder bay takes for his wife 
the prettiest lass of all the port. 

Dr. W. Well, said, Peter Lane ; for once you've spoken words of 
truth and sense. Enoch Ardeu well deserves all honor we and every- 
one else can give him. 

JSliriam. That be does, for be is a good lad, a brave one and a true ! 
And where is there a girl who deserves a better man than our Annie 
Lee? 

Peter. No one ! Not half a one ! Not a soul among all the sane, 
unless 'tis our loving partner, Miriam Lane— hie ! 

Miriam. Will you liold your tongue, you fool ? 

Peter. Never mind her. Doctor, it's only a little way she ha.s. It's 
not a way altogether in my way, but — hie — you know, I have to put 
up with it ! And I say it now in awful earnest that she's a good 
M'oman — I may say a very good woman — Miriam is, especially when 
she's asleep ; only at times she is awfully wide awake, and then sho 



gets n, little agKi"i»'\'''^ted with her poor little hnshauil, whose only fault 
on gi-eat occasions is Ihut of getting too j - j — jolli-ti-curious and 
happy ! 

I)i: W. Take my advice, friend Peter, and drink no more ! 

Miriam. If he only would do that, Doctor, I'd never be such a 
Bcold. 

Feler. Friend Peter hears — hie — friend Peter doth obey !. Indeed 
you may take my word for it, drink — hie— is dead to n)e, and 1 never 
will, positively, never, never, never, vever ! Now listen, ( beckindntj 
Ihnn to him) while I take my pledge. ( Soltvndy. ) I never will 
iig;iin, in all n)y born days, get jolly druidi — ( They co)i(iriitnl<Ue <ttid 
shake ]((iiids ic'ilk Jiini — lie povipoti.slij folds his arvis and ic<(lks aside, 
L.)— except on great occasions and important — hie — e-\vents ! 

Miriam. ( Ilupelessly. J Just as I expected ! 

Dr. W. Shiime ou you, sir, you'll break your poor wife's heart ! 

Peter. Now wait until I finish, will you? 1 said ou great occa- 
sions and important e-wents ; but there'll be no great occasions and 
important events come to this poor port, for Enoch Arden's married 
now, and times are growing duller diiy by day, for yonder town tiiey 
are building only ten miles up the bay is taking all the trade from us, 
anc\ we are dynig slow but sure. There will be )io more great occa- 
sions, no more important e-wents down here, consequently— hie— uo 
more beer. 

Dr. W. Then you \vill keep sober? 

Peter. Just try me. Doctor, try me ! Take me at my word— hie! 
This bitter pill (tapping his hreaslj to be chewed first and swallowed 
afterwards ! 

Dr. W. (Lnnghi)uj. ) I hope you will keep that pledge, friend 
Peter. But niv errand here to-day is not to put a pledge on Peter 
Lane, aUhough I hope it will be a good pledge sacredly kept. Enoch 
Ardeu and his lass- his loving wife — will soon be here, i have sent 
for them, and the surprise I liave in store will make their young 
hearts beat and throb with youthful joy ! 

Miriam. Now, Doetor dear, do tell us what it is. I am not at all 
inquisitive, but I'd like to Juiow ! 

Peter. Yes, dear Doctor, do tell us what it is. Look at us! We 
are not at all inquisitive, but we'd like to know ! 

Miriam. Don't keep us in suspense. Don't ! ( Stanips her feet. 

Pder. Yes— no, I mean — don't keep us iu suspense. Don't ! 

( Stamps h is feet. 

M'ria.vi. You always repeat after me every word I say. 

Peier. That's because aou alius sav just the right words, my 
dear! 

Miriam. Then hold your tongue, you old ■ 

Peter. Darliu", my duck — tiiat's the word you want to say, ain't it, 
my chick? 

Miriam. (Sneers. ) No it ain't, my goosey ! 

Dr. W. You want to hear what I've got to say, you queer people, 



THE wandekee's retukn. 15 



S'ud yet ye go to an;irreling. Now hear ine. Yon remember wbeu 
^he EhiI of Brockliuid i'or u pleasure trip sailed down the bay, when 
u BUvkieii squall upset his little bout, when he would have drowned 
had not Euoch Ardeu set full sail aud run his bout ou some suukeu 
rocks iiud saved him. 

MirUnii. Yes, I remember that. 

Ptler. Yes, 1 remember that, too ! *T\vas a great occasion — au 
importmt eweiit ! 

Dr. W. Wiien you jrot drunk ! 

Fdfv. I shoidd think I did, I never miss au ewent ! 

Dr. W. Now you all know that jjoor Enoch's l)()ut was stove in by 
the hhurp rocks she struc'.c on, wliere lirocklaud's boat upset, and 
that it took the boy's past suvings and future eurnmgs to fix her right 
again. 

Peter. I mind it well. I helped them fix her. Oh ! and when we 
Lad finished her, with her new ribs — O-o-o ! That was au ewent I 

(Smacks las lips. 

Miriam. Why, what could you do, pray ? 

Ftler. "What could I do ? 1 did a good deal, and put away a good 
deal, 1 cau t^ell you ! You know he hail to get a workman down Irom 
Lunnon, and tiiat workman would have his pint of ale every hour. 
That fellow made an ewent for himself every sixty minutes ! 

Jliriiim. (Sneers.) And how did that cause you to help meud 
Euoch Arden's boat? 

Feler. Why I carried the ale for the man, and held the jug which 
gave hiui stamina to prepare lor the next coming ewent, didn't I? 

Miriam. Peter Lane, you're an idiot ! 

Peter. Well, I know I'm next door to one. 

C Moves a little away from her. 

Dr. W. Don't interrupt me with such uousense, sir. (Resumes.) 
We all thou<,'ht the Earl of Biockland most niggardly lor not ofiering 
to pay tije lad for the breaking of his boat. Tiie Earl merely thanked 
him, and ruther gruffly too, und then weut his wuy. (Phiup Hay 
passes wnidow from K.) Now here's a letter that I received from his 
lordbhip to-day. 

Enter Philip Kay, door l.f. ; he crosses hehind to e. corner. 

Dr. D. But here is Philip Ptay ! Come along, Philip, you're just 
in time, my boy. Come here, and listeu while I read. (Heads.) 
"Dr, Wiutiirop— Dear sir, A young sailor named Enoch Arden saved 
my life last summer, and in doing so he not only risked his own life, 
but almost mined his boat. 1 have had one built expressly for him, 
which iu luy name you will present to him, with my r.-gards and best 
wishes for his tuture success and happiness ia life. Yours, &c., 
Biockland." That boat (and she is a beauty, too) ia riding now at 
anchor iu the bay yonder. Enoch and his wife will soon be here, aud 
this is the surprise 1 have iu store for them. 



16 THE WANDEBER's RETURN. 



Peler. (l.) And it's a glorious surprise. It's more — it'saneweut, 
aud ought to be celebrated ns cue. 

Jliiiiim. (L..C. ) Peter, hold your tongue ! 

Pder. I'm dumb (claps his hand ovei' Ids month) ns an oyster, 
and as close as one. (A^lde.) Ob, I'd like to be au oyster ! Them 
auiiuals live on suction, and get fat upon it ! 

Dr. W, (a c.) Now, Pbilip, what do you think of this news? 

F/dlip. (n. ) That it is good news, but Enoch well deserves it, for 
he is brave, true, and honest. He may well feel proud of this new 
boat. I have seen her. and admire her — she's a beauty, and a prize 
worth the gaiuing. But it is only a painted boat after all. ]Sot that 
nor all the boats or ships that ever sailed out o' yonder bay, or in or 
out of any port around the world can be worth one half as much to 
him as that other prize that Enoch's won— the heart, the love, the 
Bmiles of Annie Lee ! 

Feter. Oh, I've canght you, have I? You are there, are you? 
Yes, yes, you alius had a kind o' tenderness— a sort of I would if I 
could kind o' feeling towards that lass. Yum, yum ! 

Miriam. Peter, hold your tongue — you've said enough ! Your 
judgment on such matters is none too good when sober. 

Feler. I'm never too drunk to tell the truth, and with me you 
alius get it Mitli the ewent. 

Philip. You tell the truth, Peter, I'll not deny that. But you tell 
it in such plain, uncourteous words that it pains me. But I blush 
not to tell it. Annie Lee loas all the world to me — aye, ever since 
she was a little lass and played at keeping house for us down by the 
bay. As children we have played together, as a child 1 loved her I 
But my love, my untold and secret love, has grown and ripened, 
strengthening with my years, my manhood. But I have uttered 
words here to you I never breathed to Annie Lee, for well have I 
known how hojDeless was that one great wish of my desolate heart, 
ever since we all went nutting to the hazels in that Autumnal even- 
tide, where she and Enoch sat there hand in hand together, so seem- 
ingly content in their little world, alone, beside each other, in the sun- 
light shadows of that lovely dell. Although since then there's been a 
hungering at n)y heart tliat naught can satisfy nor time appease, yet 
there is no malice lingering there — no, not even envy ! Bless them 
both ! 

Dr. W. (Shaking hands heariily loith him. ) Spoken like a true 
man that you are, Philip. You may feel a little tender 'bout it now, 
yet there's many a happy day in store for Philip Ray. 

(Philip shakes Jus head. 

Peler. Now, I wouldn't mind that kind of thing a bit, for she'll 
get old and cross some day, just like the rest o' plain married 
folk. 

Miriam. Peter Lane, how dare you ? Respect me, if you've lost 
all respect for yourself ! 



THE wanderer's RETtJRlT. 17 

Peler. Oh, you're excepted, Miriam ! You, my gem ! Pooh I 
YoiCre a jewel ! 

Dr. W. You two keep cool, can't yon, aud don't let yonr anger 
rise ho siid<lenly. A few of kucIi tempestnons out bursts 'twixt an old 
niiinied couple like yourselves would be u bud example for a young 
and happy pair like Enoch and his wife. 

Pttn-. Tliat is the blessed truth you're telling again, Doctor ! 
Tliere's nothing like following a bad example— I mean a good one — 
and as I ouce heerd a fellow say, follow my precepts but not my bad 
exiiniple, I've thought of it ever since. (Aside.) And I am going 
to celebrate th:it eweut Konie day. 

Dr. W. Tiiere, there ! say no more about it, Peter. Your words 
are not likely to mend matters. 

(Enoch Auden passes the window, from B., arm-in-arm tcilh 
Anniis. 

Dr. W. Besides, there's Enoch and his lass coming. Let us greet 
them cheerfully. 

Peter. Aye, that we will ; and you too, Philip ! We're not the fox 
and thi) grapes, iire we ? 

3liriam. Peter ! 

Peler, Oh, Lor' ! (Aside.) That's a sour grape ! 

(Philip appears annoyed, a)id turns aside, b, Music. 

Enter Enoch and Annie Arden, door l.t. 

Dr. W. Well, here you are, my children, obedient to my summons, 
Now that you are here, both of you, I scarce know how to begin, or 
wijat to say. 'Twas not to call a blessing down upon your heads 
that I brought you hither, for, you know, the dominie did that when 
ye were wed, and the good man's blessing will lust you while you 
live ! 

Peter. And so it ought to, I should think, all your lives — and a 
day over —for he was long enough about it, wasn't he ? So long, in 
fact, that I got nervous, and I began seriously to think I wouM have 
to celebrate the ewent. ( Yawns. 

Enoch. (Laughs. ) With a drink, good Peter? 

Peter. Well, i haven't got over it, yet. 

Dr. W. Enoch, I have a letter here that is of interest to you, and 
I claim your kind attention, friends, while I read it. First, I'll ask 
you, Enoch, on your way hither did you see a new boat at anchor in 
the bay ? 

Enoch. That we did, and a new and handsome one she is ! A 
beuuty ! 

Dr. W. Attention, then! ( Reads the letter. 

Enoch. That new boat lying in the bay yonder for me ? 

Dr. W. Aye, for you, my man, and I've the honor, from His 
Ri^ht Honorable Lordship, the E;irl of Brockland, to present it to 
you, Enoch Arden, as a slight recompense for your gallant endeavors 



18 THE WANDEREE's EETUKN. 



in saving Lis lordship from the perils of the deep and a watery 
grave. 

Aiwie. Oh, Enoch, ain't that grand? Can it be true? I almost 
fear the Doctor does but jest. 

Feler. It's jest as true as gospel, every word. 

Miriam. Peter ! 

Feter. (Hand to mouth — Aside. ) Oyster ! 

Enoch. 'Tis a noble gift, and one I can well be proud of. 

Vr. W. But you deserve it, my lad, for you justly earned it. 
What say yon, my girl, do you share your husband's joy ? 

A^inie. I do, indeed, Doctor ! I am proud of the gift, but prouder 
of the owner who possesses it. (Embraces Enoch. 

Feler. So am 1 ! I'm proud of everything and everybody ! I'm 
proud of myself ! 

Dr. W, (Laughs. ) Your wife won't say as much for you, Peter. 

Peter, Ah, well, as you're a spinster — no, I mean a bachelor ; it's 
all the same — and hav'n't a wife, you can't appreciate the quiet bless- 
ings of a married home ! ( To Miriam. ) Can he, my chick ? 

Miriam. Peter ! 

Feter. (Same business.) Oyster! 

Enoch. I am anxious, friends, to see this boat of mine. A jolly 
sail we'll have in her down the bay, and you are nil to go. And, 
Philip, you shall be the captain for the first cruise, and Peter Lane 
shall be the crew for the event. 

Feler. (Shakes his head,) No, no, I fear it would not be safe, 
my lad. 

Enoch. Why not, old friend? 

Feter. The crew might all get drunk. (All laugh. 

Dr. W. Who'll christen her ? The boat must have a name. 

Feter. Let's call her "Peter Lane!" AVhat do you say, wouldn't 
that be queer ? 

Miriam. Very ! But she wasn't built to float in beer. 

(All laugh, 

Feler. Was I built for that purpose, wife ? That's a settler I 

Miriam. You've drank enough beer and ale to float a whaler I 

Dr. W. There you two go again. The boat must Lave a name. 
What shall it be? 

Philip. The owner says I shall be the captain on this her first 
trip. Now, if I am to be the captain, I should like to christen her — ■ 
then, when I take the helm, I shall guide o'er the mighty deep and 
land in safety the living cargo of the vessel, by whom I was called 
upon to name her ! 

Enoch. Annie here shall say who'll name the boat. Mayhap she's 
got a name to choose herself? 

Awiie. No, no, dear Enoch ! Let Philip Ray name the boat ! 

Philip. That's soon done! (Raises his hat.) I'll call her *' The 
Anuie Lee !" 



THE WANDEKEll's BETURN. 19 



Omnes. ( Together. ) "The Annie Lee!" 

(Philip becomes immediately dejected. Doctor Wintheop no- 
i'lciug the movement, rouses liim, forces him to take his hand, 
rcihich he grasps, and poi)ds to Heaven, that Philip may gain 
inspiy-ation and courage. Enoch and Annie Arden em- 
brace, c. 
Enoch. My young wife ! 

Peter. (Embracing Miuiam hi imitation of Enoch.) My old 
wouiau ! (Miriam turns upon and beats Jtim. Tableau. 3Iusic. 



END or ACT I. 



Seven years are supposed to elapse between the First and Second Acts, 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Boom at Enoch Arden's. Doors e.p. and L.r, Win- 
dow, T.E.R. Fireplace, t.e.l. 

Annie Arden discovered working at table, before loindow, r. e. r. Enoch 
Arden smokbig — with both arms resting on his knees — close before 
the fire, t.e.l. The two children (Enoch's) playing loith toys on 
floor at back of stage, c. 3Iusic. 

Annie. (Dropping her work.) It is of no use, I cannot work. 
My eyes grow dim with suppressed tears and my heart throbs and 
beats nigh to bursting ! (Looks round, and watches Enoch, l.) And 
there nhti Enoch KU)oldug and moping, and making himself wretched, 
with his knees almost upon the bars of the burning fire ! There's 
something on his mind — I know there is — something, I fear, that he 
wauta to tell me, but is afraid to do it. Why should be fear to meet 



20 THE WANDEREB'rt KKTCr.N. 

me with unpleasant news, for am I not his wife, the mother of his 
children ? 

JEiiocJt. (Aside.) O'n, how can I break it to her? 

Annie. Yets, .yes, he suffers ! 1 know it— bee it— yet his brave heart 
rebels at tiie Jiiere thoiij^ht of making nie a shiuer iu Ijis trniibltts ! 
(lii.ses.J 1 will force him to lesson iho weight from A/s miml Ijy 
letting nie bear the half of it mcdi/ from him ! ( Looka iiiromik the 
xoindoio. ) "Wijat is that I see? Enoch's vessel — "The Annie Lee" 

— (handnpoii hedii) — with strange colors flying — a strange crew on 
board! They Weigh ancljor— they set sail — "The Annie Lf-e " is 
leaving the bay. What can this mean? (Goes siiddenlp over to 
Enoc-k, and co)denipl<(l€S liiin — he sitjlis (igiii)i..) Enoch! ( SiiC 
.s})e(dcs to him again — but louder — layiug lier hand -upon his skoxdaer.) 
Enoch ! 

(He siaris— turns — recognizes her — takes her hand and kisses it. 

Enoch. ]s that yon, Annie dear? 

A}uue. Yes, Enoch, it is me. Are you unwell? 

Enoch. Oh, yes, 1 am well — qnite well! 

Annie. Y'es, yes, you may be in body. I hope, also, you are in 
mind, dear Enoch ! 

Enoch.. (Rising.) "Why, Annie, njy darling, what ails you? 
"What strange fancy lias paled your cheek ? 

(He tends her over to the i;. — They A-ii— Enoch's arm around her 
loai.sf. 

Annie. Are my cheeks pale — so very pale — dear Enoch ? 

Enoch. And your eyes are red, and — an — mercilui Heavens! they 
are tilled with tears ! What is it, Annie ? 

Annie. (Placi)ig her arms arouinl Jiis neck.) For yon, dear! I 
cannot see you suffer and not feel for you, not feel xcith you, for are 
we not man ami wile — are we not one ? 

Enoch. ( Embracing and kissing her.) Bless you, my pretty one 
— ( tSees the children ailently playing iip c.)— and my poor little ones! 

( Turns aside. 

Annie. (Rises, ajid loith vigor.) Enoch, what is it? There is 
something on your mind ? Tell me, your wife, I implore you — 1 
insist ! 

(Extends her arms and clasping her hands, as if entreating him. 

Enoch, Well, then, Annie, I — 1 — ( lurns aside) — no, no, 1 cannot 
tell you, 'twould break your heart ! 

Annie. Then let it break! I have shared j'our joys, now let me 
wed your sorrows ! 

Enoch. (Clasps her lo his breast, and kisses her.) ^eW, then, as 
you imist know all sooner or later, perhaps the sooner the better ! 
Know, then, that I have sold the boat ! 

.A)inie. (Breaks from him. J Sold the boat? That dear old boat 
you loved so well; which Philip Eny named after me ! Sold "The 
Annie Lee!" Why, Enoch Arden, what strange lancy posKessed you 

— what caused you to sell your boat ? 



IHE V.'ANDliREBS KETUBN. 'Ji 

Enoch. For the sake of yon, Aimie Arden, nucl these onr little 
ones, 1 sold "Tbe Aunio Lee!" For well yon know that since tliat 
fall I got that lamed me so, when I lay helpless for months on a sick 
hfd, and yon, my tender-hearted wife, ko kindly nnrsed me, another 
came here with Ids boat, ihe trade became divided betwixt us, which 
ut best was scant enongh for one. But now 

Annie. But now what, Enoch? What is there for ns uow to do 
since you have sold the boat? 

J'Jnocli. I'll tix up your front room nil tiily like with shelves and 
conutt-rs, ril buy a good uew stock of grocery goods, and Anuie Lee 
that nsed to be shall keep the store for Annie Arden ! 

An)de. (Dazed. ) " Anuie Lee that used to be " — (Lnola him fall 
hi the face) — "shall keep the store for Annie Arden!" But you, 
Enoch, what are yon going to do ? Not leave me ? 

Enoch. Oh, I'll do enough, believe me, to keep the kettle singing, 
and the pot a-boiling ! 

A)in'ie. I know )ou will, dear Euoch, but why answer me so 
strangely? All dny long I've felt so gloomy like, so sad and down- 
cast, as though I were going to lose you, and for good. Now tell me 
truly, husband, you're not going away from me, from onr children, 
are you? You're not going to far off London, there to be lost to us 
forever ? 

Enoch. No, not to London, Annie. (Smiles.) Why, what nils 
thee, gill? 

Annie. You are keeping something from me, Enoch, and I must, 
I will know the truth. Now tell me nil, I pray you ! By the mem'ry 
of youv past and present love! By the love you bear your children, 
and the mother of them, I implore, beseech you, tell me! 

Enoch. (Aside.) I've not the nerve to tell her, 'twould break her 
heart. 

Annie. (Despairingly. ) Euoch, Enoch, what is it you are keeping 
from me ? 

Enoch. Well, Annie, lass, I'll tell thee all. I tried to break the 
news to you yesterday, after I had sold the boat, but, somehow I had 
not the courage. ( lie speaks admUj, and in the same t<»ie of voice to 
ihe end of .speech. ) A ship, China bound, sails from this port in just 
six days. (At this, Annik, tolio is sta)iding in froiU of a chuir, r.. 
phiC'-s'her tn-o liands ?;/)<>/i Iter fiirefie'id, slaves vacantly, hfcomes dazed 
<iiid vi(>Ho)iles.s, until Esoun h.as finished speaking.) The ship did 
lack a boatswain, and 1 have iiired, Auuie. For tlie sake of yon and 
tht-so I'll go. I'll go on tiiis one trip, and if successthl, go one other 
one ; wlieu I cau come home to you a rich man, Anuie. Think of 
that! Then cau we educate our childieu as they ought to be, and 
give them a better bringing up than your parents children or mine 
hiive ever been, dear Annie! (AxNiE /(<//.s- Usllessli/ into R. chair.) 
Annie, Annie, speak to me ! Oh, the blow lias kill^-d her. 

(lie is rnsliing over to her side, rchen. Petkr Lanio speaks loudly 
iot7/iO(ii— Enoch, at the sound (f hln voice, quickly walks over 



22 THE WANDF.RKRS RETURN. 

to the Jive and sils—Tke two children leave their playthings and 
exeunt door b.f. 

Enter Peter Lake, breathlessly, door l.f, 

Peter. (SJudcing Enoch.) OIj, here yon are, siiul alive j'et? Yes, 
real flesh and bloofi, aud no mistake! (Hits Enoch a blow on the 
hack, which makes him start. ) AVhat do you mean by I'rigLleuiug us 
all? Nappy Kalstou has told me all about it. Tliat you bad gone 
to Chiua, aud bad been eaten up by the Caruibblers— uo, 1 mean 
that you were going to Chiua, aud were going to be eaten up by 
the Caruibblers— it's the same thiug— it's a mere question of time ! 
Oh, to think of going over to that Carnibbers, out-of-the-way country 
to be poisoned by oloe berries and then buried in a tea-chest ! Oh, 
don't, don't go, Enoch I You'd make a nasty cup of strong Bohea ! 
But if you do go, (clenching his fists) I shall get so mad, that if you 
are eaten up, and 1 get to hear of it, I shall send my old woman ofif 
to bed first, aud then out of sheer vexation, go off myself aud cele- 
brate the ewent ! (Enoch laughs in spite of Jumself, and shakes hands 
tcith Peter.) Ah, that's right ! Now you're coming to, and we may 
be happy yet, as the song says. 

Enoch. No, uo, it's too bite, friend Peter ! I could not endure the 
chance of facing poverty, so I've shipped on board the "Good For- 
tune," bound for China, aud I've sold "The Annie Lee !" 

Feter. "What! Sold your wife? Why, you are worse than the 
Caruibblers ! No, I don't mean that. When I say sold your wife, I 
mean she who w^as your wife before you married her ! No, no ! I've 
got 'em all mized up — green tea, and mixed, and Bohea, aud Caruib- 
blers, and Annie Lees and Ardens ! There ! It's a conundrum— I 
give it up! (Sees Annie, r.) Ah, there she is! I'll talk to her! 
(Enoch stops him.) Oh, asleep is she? Poor thing ! Where sleep 
is bliss, 'tis folly to be otherwise ! And / won't give her any of your 
bad Bohea mixture to wake her ! 

Enoch. But if you talk so loud, Peter, yon icill wake her, 

Peter. Oh, that's it, is it? Then I'll speak in a whisper. (WhiS' 
pers very hnc. ) If you promise not to go to Chiua, I'll go and cele- 
brate tlie ewent! ( Wi>dcs at Enoch.) What do you thiuk of that? 
There's torture for you? Well, do you promise? 

Enoch. No ! I inust keej) faith, having pledged my word, 

Pder. That's nothing ! I've often wanted to pledge my word to 
my old wou)au, but she won't take it ! Slie says I've pledged it so 
often that it's completely worn out, and that if I want to sell it for 
whiit it is worth, I must go to the jimk market! But this won't do! 
I can't stop talking to you all day— I'm going to stop you from going 
to China ! 

Enoch. No, no ! 

Peter. Yes, yes ! I'll go and tell the captain you've got the small- 
pox. That'll frighten him ! ( Going— is pulled back by 'Kaocu.) I'll 



THE WANDERJUiS KETURN.' 23 



tell bim j'ou've got varicose veins in your bead — tbat you're troubled 
witb a swimming tbere — and tbat you can't go up aloft for fear of 
tumbling down into tbe bold ! 

(Breaks away, and exit door i,.f., leaving coat-tail. Enoch 
turns at door l.f., and contemplates Annie for a moment — site 
is weeping, xoith her head buried in her hands, resting on the 
iahle — then crosses over to, and sits hy her side — takes her 
hand. 

Enoch. Annie, dear Annie, don't talce on so. Tbe darkest bour is 
always tbe one before tbe dawn. Only a little patience, and tbe sua 
will sbine fortb gloriously for all of us ! 

Annie. (Looking up.) Euocb, tbere is no sun bere in my borne 
for me. Yo^i were my snu, my ligbt, my life ! And you want to 
leave me alone in darkness, and our poor dear cbildren ! 

( Weeps silently. 

Enoch. (Distressed and rising.) Ob, Annie, cbild, you imuiaii 
— unnerve — me, and unfit me for tbe duties of tbe bour ! All will 
bappen for tbe best ! Wby will you tbwart my wisbes, oppose my 
views ? 

Annie. (Rises.) Never since tbe bour we were wed, Euocb, bave 
I ever opposed one act of yours ; but now, for tbe first time, you'll 
bave to listen to your wife's tbwartiugs, and bear witb ber if sbe op- 
poses you, for never, never will you ever get consent of mine to leave 
your borne and cbildren, and go ou sncb a trip. 

Enoch. Consider, my word, my pledge is given, and tbe captain, 
knowing me, bas paid me au advance, wbicb will enable me to pro- 
vide for you till my return, by fitting up your store. 
I- Annie. You can give tbat money back. 
¥ Enoch. Not now, it is too late. 

' A7inie. It is never too late to do good. Ob, Enocb, give tbat 
money back. 

Enoch. (Turns away.) I cannot, my word is pledged. 

Annie. (Pulling him to her— face to face. ) Perisb your word! 
Would you keep tbat, wbicb in tbe keeping would cause your cbil- 
dren and your wife to perisb ? "Wbat is your word given 7ww to tbe 
oatb M'bicb you gave me at tbe altar ? "Wbicb would you ratber keep, 
tbe oatb given to your Maker, or your bare word given to tbe captain 
of yonder sbip? ( Poi)ds to lo indow. ) Oh, untie tbe knot, Enocb, 
undo tbat fatid word ; think of your long absence, and remain witb 
us — your children, and your wife ! 

( Clasps her arms around his neck, and lays her head -upon his 
breast. 

Enoch. I bave thought of all that, Annie, often and often since I 
first set my mind to improve our fortunes by the taking of this trip ; 
and, oh, bow bitter is the paiu that fills my heart when I think of 
loaviyi"' >'on. mv child, you, my loving wife- - >• 



24 THE WANDEREU's llETUBN. 



Avnie. (Pkadmgly — looJcbig i(p into his face, icilh her hands clasped 
round his neck.,) Then don't go, Enoch ! 

Enoch. (TJnclaspbig her hands, and cusUng her from him. ) Dou't 
teuipt me, moujuu! (She turns aside, silenllij weeping, burying her 
face in her }iands — Enoch relents, gently takes her hands, and draws 
her to his embrace. ) Forgive me, wife, for Kpeakiug thus to you ; but 
your pleadiug with me tempts me so to bteuk my word. For well 
you kuow I AvouUi not leiive you if it were not for our future good. 
Come, cheer up ; think not so much of all the lonesome days you'll 
Liivewhen I tua gone, but rather think instead of all the brighter oues 
iu store for you wlien I come back a richer man. 

Annie. (Propheliadly.) Enoch, you never will come back ! 

Enoch. (Shuddering.) Don't, dou't, lass! ( Picdlying. ) Whj', 
Annie, girl, I'm afraid that grief has turned your bram. It's wrong 
to talk and go on so, for well you know that He who watchelh o'er 
us all, can keep me just as safe and sound on you great rolling sea, 
us in this little anchorage at home, with you as pilot. 

Annie. But there's storm and shipwreck on the rolling deep, dear 
Enoch, which wo never fear iu this little anchorage at home. 

(Lays Iter head iipon liis bosom. 

Enoch. You're calmer now, dear wife! (Looks into her face. ) 
And, ah, you smile! (Kisses her forehead.) God bless you and our 
little ones. (Embrace. ) Yon spoke about the long years tliat I'll be 
gone ; your thoughts were gloomy then. Just months, dear wife. 
The lad and you will count those months at first, and think them 
long, and then you'll count the weeks, and soou the days ; and before 
you know it, the brave old ship "Good Fortune" will come sailing 
up the bay, and like euotigh I'll find our dear ones playing iu the 
sands ou the beach, just like you and I were wont to play when we 
were boy and girl together. 

Annie. Ah, Enoch, well I know you are talking only now to cheer 
nie, and well I know you think it for the good of us and ours, that 
you shoultl go ou this long, perilous trip, but every hour till that one 
fixed lor sailing I shall i>riiy unceasingly that some gooil fortune may 
yet betide ns, and you still be spared to slay with us at this our little 
anchorage at home I 

Enoch. Pray rather for a speedy trip across the seas, dear wife, 
and my safe return to thee and thine, at this our little anchorage at 
home. 

(Music — "Home, Sweet Home" — T.he children come rnnning 
in frotn door kf. ^Enoch enibr(U'.es Annie — S!ie resis her 
head upon his breast ~'Es(>cii looks npicards us if invoking a 
sileid blessing upon, his xoife — The boy sla)ids by Ids father's 
side, tookinij up hdo his f tee — The girt sits on a stool l>y her 
mother's feet, and sympatlieticaliy and siltidly iceeps with Jiei: 
Tableau. Cloned in. 



THE wandebeb's eetubn. 25 



Scene IL — Wood and Cut Woods in First and Second Grooves. 
Music. 

Enter Philip Kat, l. 

Pldlip. Another year has gone it's course, while still increasing 
piOHperitj' has fallen to my lot. Some men are inciiistrious and sober, 
work hard aud with a will, 3'et fail in adding to their store of worldly 
wealth. Others, equally praiseworthy, yet without Jibing superhuman 
efforts, aud ail they lay their hands on turns to grist. (Smiles. ) I 
am one of the lucky latter ones— still, for all that, I am not happy! 
( Sighs. ) Man requires some incentive to exertion — some oueto work, 
to live for — to build a home for himself, with one of the other sex to 
Buiile upon him in that home, to help him onwards with her silent ap- 
probation, and cheer him by her actions to accomplish greater aims ! 
And yet, I am alone I Ob, Annie Lee, An — but no, it is not right to 
think of her. She is another's, and that other is my friend ! Poor 
Enoch ! He struggles hard, works early and late, still, withal, re- 
mains unfortunate ! The grinding wheel of fate favors some, dis- 
favors others ! He shall let me assist him. Three times hath he re- 
fused my proffered aid, but the next effort and I will force my good 
offices upon him. 

Enter Peteb Lane, b., wiping his eyes, 

Philip. "Why, how now, old friend, are your water works rolling? 
You are looking sad. (Laughs. 

Peter. Yes, and I don't belie my looks. I'm an undone Peter ! 

Philip. I never saw you look so bad before in all my life. 

Peter. I never felt so bad before in all my life. 

Philip. Been a drinking, Peter? 

Peter, No, I ain't been a drinking, Peter ! I'm a weepin', Peter, 
and I think I ought to baptize the ewent wi' beer. 

Philip. What ! has the patience of the good wife given out at last? 
Ho, ho, ho ! 

Peter. "The patience of the good wife — ho, ho, ho!" What do 
you mean ? 

Philip. Why, lias she been flogging her Peter like a mother would 
whip her disobedient little boy ? 

Peter. Philip Kay, do I look like a baby as would stand the like o' 
that ? Ugh ! 

Piiilip. Ho, ho, ho! 

Peter. I see you are joking ! But jokes are out of place at this 
sad time. (Sighs. 

Philip. "At this sad time?" Speak out, old man, tell me what 
you mean. 



26 THE WANBEREn's KETDEN. 

Peler. Why, he's goiii' off, aucl she's grieviug out lier life u'most, 
ftu' Kiiys be'll never come back. 

Fldlip. Who is going off, unci who is grieving out her life? 

Feler. Well, Philip Kay, ye'r clumber and blinder now than when 
you were a hid. To think you didn't know that your old playmate, 
iEuoch Ardeu, has hired as a boatswain on the ship " Good Fortune," 
and she Bails from out this port this very day. 

Philip. (Surprised.) What! Enoch leaves to-da)'. Parts from 
his wife, home, children, and again to follow the treacherous life at 
sea ? But whither is he bound ? 

Peter. Aye, that's the trouble, man. That's just what makes me 
•weep. Enoch^s weuturesonie, and he's weuturing on his fate. He's 
goin' to China, among the pig-tails ! 

Philip. To China ? Well that's not a dangerous place or trip. 

Peler, It's not the place or trip that's going to kill him, man, but 
the pigtails when he gets there. 

Philip. You are talking nonsense, Peter. 

Peler. No, I'm not. They'll gobble him first, and bury him arter 
in a tea-chest. 

Philip, Gobble and bury a man in a tea-chest? Ha, ha, ha! 
Now I'm sure you have been drinking ! 

Peler. There yo»i go I I can't give information to anybody, but 
what they say I have been drinking. Nappy Ralston told niy old 
woman — I mean my wife— that the pig-tails are all Carnibblers ! 

Philip. Carnibblers! What's a Carnibbler? 

Peter. Wh)', a gobbler! The pigtails eat a poor devil in China 
just like we would swallow an oyster on the half shell. {Sometimes 
they eat bits on 'em fried and stewed, but generally as a rule they 
smack their lips over 'em raw. Oh, I'd hate to die and then be eaten 
by a Carnibbler ! Ugh ! ( Shudders. 

Philip. (Lauqhs.) Cannibals, you mean — man-eaters! Well, 
Peter, be fiure of one thing, that if ever yon should get so far from 
home, there'd toe no fear of the savages in their right minds trying to 
feast on you. 

Peler. No, I'd be a little tough, I know ; but then I'd do, (sighing 
and half crying) and I'd go down easy with AVorcestershire Sauce ! 

Philip. But if «ver any Cannibals did eat you, Peter, they'd gorge 
over you in vour raw state, depend upon it ! 

Peter. AVould they ? Why ? 

Philip. There's so much liquor in your body, that if they tried to 
cook you you'd flare up, burn to a<jinder, and there'd be nothing left 
of you to eat! ( Laxcghs. 

Peter. Oh, don't be personal. You wound mj' feelings! 

Philip. But you are misinformed, friend Peter. There are no 
Cannibals in China. (Laughs. 

Peter. Ain't there? Nappy Ralston told me so. That's what 
made me feel so bad. Ugh ! Fancy them nibbling away at Enoch's 
limbs ! I wonder if they'd quaiTel over his wish bone ? 



THE wanderer's return. 27 

FJdUp. (Angry.) Old nmu, don't let uie Lear jinj' more such 
Killiuess, it is wroug to tiilk so. You've been driukiug ugaiu, for all 
}<)U took the pledge. 

Peler. Yes, I know I took tbe pledge, Philip, aud it was a great 
occabiou, I cau tell you, aud, you kuow, that eweiit had to be cele- 
brated, r Goes up a Utile. 

Philip. So Enoch leaves to-day. A sudden notion this. Leave 
Annie and the babes? (Pause.) What loill ihey du ? / would not 
leave them. (Half aside. 

Peter. ( Comes down. ) You wouldn't, Ley ? No, I don't suppose 
you would. Nor woidd Enoch Arden leavw them if he had u mill a 
grinding like you— a mill a grinding that brouglit in brass enough to 
keep them all with plenty and at home ! Enoch loves them all too 
well for that. How I. rave and cheerful like he bears it, tho' his heart's 
a achiu' ju.st like mine's a achin' now for him. But there's one thing 
sure — no odds how long his ship may go about a driftin' on the sea, 
tliem babes o' Annie Lee shall never want for bread, not while Pliilip 
Ray controls the mill, (shakes Jiands with Philip) or Peter Lane and 
bis good wife can run the Inn, 

Philip. No, that they sha'n't, good Peter. (Returns his s(dn(e. ) 
But I nnist go and say good bye to him. (Crosses to B. 

Peter. Ht re ! I say — come back ! (Philip returns. ) Do you 
kuow you cheered me up amazin' like, for I was sure that Enoch was 
a goin' where they'«l eat him ? Oh, and if they had a eaten him, 
and he'd a never come back we wouldn't never a known how they'd 
finished him, would we ? And it would alius been a worrimeut ou 
my miud, not knowin' whether the pig-tails had taken him ou the 
half-shell, or had liinj broiled. 

Phdip. ( Going ii. ; Don't be a fool ! You'd drive a person crazy 
with such nonsense. Let me hear no more of it. (Melt R. 

Peter. (Calls after Itini.) "Well, you go on aud say good-bye to 
him, and I'll go and fetch Doctor Wiuthrop, and together Ave'll 
clieer the lad up a bit before he goes. (Cross to l. ) Oh, them 
pig-tails, them pig-tails ! 0-h ! 

(Holds his nose and exit, L. Music — "Home, Sweet Home" — 
before discovering 



Scene IIL — Cottage and porch, with ivy growing up and around same, 
s.E.L. Arbor a)ui garden seat, t.e.r. Large water tub, painted 
green, on stand at back of cottage, t.e.l. Pump fixed R.c, opposite 
seco)td entrance. Ground row from t.e.r. to t.e.l. Set waters be- 
yond. Horizon at back of scene. Profile full-rigged sJiip at back of 
scene, u.e.r. JBoat a)id truck ready behind ground row off at xoing, 
T.E.R. Table and three garden chairs discovered uc. Cradle up 
xtp stage, e.c. 



2l8 THE windebeb's betubn. 



Annie dificovered weeping on Enoch's shoulder outside of porch, l. — 
I'lie two children discovered rocking cradle at hack of stage, r.o. 
Tableau. A signal gun is fired fr am the profile ship after the miisio 
of "Home, Sweet Home" terminates. All the Characters move — 
Annie sluidders ; Enoch folds her closer to his breast, and looks 
roxuid to Vie ship j the children leave their rocking, rise, and look in 
the direction of the ship — their backs to the audience, A Sailou in a 
boat rows oil from i.e.h.— stops c. 

Enoch. The signal guii, Auuie ! In an hour we shall set sail ! 

Sailor. (Having laid down Ids oar, stands up in boat. ) Did 3'0ii 
Lear tlie gun, Mr. Ardeu ? We are getting nuder weigh. The cap- 
tain sent ine to convey you on board. (Annie cU)igs closer to Enoch. 

Enoch. All riglit, my man, In ten minutes. Go indoors and 
draw yourself a mug of beer. 

iSailor. Aye, aye, sir ! 

(Jiint}>s from boat and exits into cottage, L. Tlie children follow 
}iim off, staring xmlh. wonder. 

Annie. Oh, don't, don't leave me, husband, it will hill me ! 

Enoch. Couie, Annie, wife, be cheerful, and go pacic my little 
bundle, which 1 nnist lake with me, and, mind ye, in that bundle put 
some little treasure owned by each of you, which I will keep ever on 
my breiist, locked there as a remembrance of my wife, my home, and 
little ones. Not that I can ever forget thee, lass — no, no! Not one 
hour of (he time that I'll be gone — let it be months, or even years — 
but what I'll think of you and home, or of some blessed memory of 
our married life! But the little keepsake that ye are going to give 
me, will bring ye nearer like to me when I am lar away on the 
bright blue sea ! (Embrace. 

Enter the two Children, runnhig, from cottage. 

Boy. (R. r)f Enoch.) Oh. papa, papa, that naughty big man with 
the black whiskers, who came in the boat and is drinking ale like old 
Peter Lane, says he's going to take you away ever so far, and that 
you will live in that big ship yonder. You're not going to leave 
mother and the baby, are you, papa ? 

Girl (L. of Annie.) Don't let him, mamma, don't ! Oh, I shall 
cry so ! 

Annie. (l.c.) You hear them, husband? Even our children 
plead to you for their mother. 

Enoch.. ( Looking }ip. ) What is to be, will be ! (Moved.) Go, 
go, rock the babj', children, an —and kiss it for your papa ! (Chil- 
dreii go up and do so. Wipes away a tear. ) They make me lone- 
some lilce. (Tarns, sees Annie crying.) Don't, don't cry, my dar- 
ling, for that will make me truly wretched. (Kisses her.) Oh, once 
on the deep, great sea, when for days and weeks, and months, per- 
haps, I shall be away, I shall miss my little darling's pretty little 



THE wanderer's RETURN. 29 

prattle. And, little do they heed the thought now that when I'm 
goue the sweetest music of all the world will be the riugiu' o' their 
voices iu luy ear, or tlie luemories of the times when they put their 
little arms around luy neck and kissed lue, and told uie o' their 
troubles or your joys ! But let me not think of it. I am talkin' sorry 
like when I wouia fain be cheerful and be glad. This voyage, by the 
will of Heaven, will bring fair wenther yet to all of us ; so keep a 
clean hearth, dear wife, a clear fire, and I'll be back— to your sur- 
prise, dear pirl— long before you know it. 

A}i}iie. Oh, Enoch, you are wise, and j'ou are good ; yet for all 
your wisdom — all you goodness — well I know it, that when you part 
from me, when you leave this beach for yonder ship, I shall look 
upon you for the last time on earth — you will see my face uo 
more. 

Enoch. (Shivers.) 0-h1 You chill me to the bone! Come, 
Annie, cheer up before I go, and don't take this little trip of mine so 
much to heart, (She smiles sadly.) That's right, smile as you did 
use to smile, nor ever again allow that lovely face of thine so much to 
resemble woe ! 

Annie. (Points to rustic arm-chair, c.) Sit there, Enoch, in that 
rustic chair — sit there once more— which you so nobly fill, and take 
our children upon your knee. ( Music— 'E^ocu sits — Annie goes up 
and hri)igs the children down — Enoch takes the boy upon his right knee 
— Annie places the girl upon Jus left — Enoch dazed. ) 1 want to see 
you sit and hold the babes once more, to look into their innocent 
faces once again, to clasp their little hands, and feel the youthful 
throbbings and beatings of their little hearts. Pray, pray, my little 
ones. (She joins the girl's hands — the boy, looking at his sister, clasps 
his.) For, oh, the thought is killing me, of this solemn parting they 
will ever think of in after days. 

Enoch, What mean you, wife? 

Annie. 'Tis the last time, husband, that you will ever hold your 
kith and kin ! 

Enoch. Don't, wife, don't ! You make my heart ache. Do not 
drive me mad ! , , , .. 

(He starts from his chair, putting the children aside, and beating 
Ills forehead. 

Annie. Enoch, I do not want to make your burthen heavier than 
it is, for 'lis liard enough at best— but truth is truth ! If I could 
only drive such thoughts away, if I could only feel that you were 
coniing back— though it were years from now— I would not grieve so, 
but I cannot, cannot (breaking down) feel that way. (Crosses to 
cnlliKje, L. — Tarns to liim at door. ) I'll go and get your little bundle 
now, though all the time I'll feel as if it were your shroud that you 
have bid me nov/ get ready ! 

(Music e/t(i.s-— Annie exits into cottage, lu—The Children have 
gone to the cradle. 
Enoch. The good wife has given me quite a turn. A clammy 



30 I'HE WANDEREB« RKTUUN. 

cleatb-like colduess is Btamped iu beads of sweat upon my brow. 
(Shakes his hind from foiektad. _) There! I'm better now! Ah! 
bere comes old Peter Lane — the kind old soul — and Doctor Wiutbrop, 
too ! They've come to see me ofi' aud cheer me up a bit. (Music. 

Elder Peteu Lane and Dr. Winthrop, s.e.r. 

Enoch. Aye, welcome, friends ! You've come to cheer my girl — I 
tbauk yon— (Shakes hands with the Docxok) — she's well nigh broken- 
hearted !iud low-spirited. 

Dr. W. We've come to say God speed to you, good friend, and 
speak a cheeriug word of comfort to your wife. 

Entei' Annie Akden, with bundle, from cottage, l. ; she places the bun- 
dle on table, l. 

Dr. W. And here she is! (Crosses to l.c.) We've come to in- 
voke Heaven's blessings on you and yours, to wish you well, aud see 
all faces blithe and gay on the departure of your husband from our 
bay. Come, come, my lass, don't look so cast down — think better of 
this sacrifice your husband makes ; 'tis to benefit you and yours ! It 
vill not be long 'ere he returns, and then the joy of seeing him come 
Lome with the fortune he going to work for will well repay the pungs 
of separation now, (Leads her up, they talk aside, l. 

The Sailor enters from cottage, l., takes the bundle from table and 
oiters boat. 

Peter, (r.c.) Enoch, let me take your hand, good lad, and say 
God speed you among the rest, for there's none of all this world have 
I to love but Miriam, and although she's hasty and angered like some- 
times, she's true to the core for all that, ( They sliake hands heartily. ) 
So, if the love of one frail old bark that's almost wrecked will be of 
any value to you on your onward course, take it, lad, it's yours ! May 
Heaven bless yoti, boy, and prosper you iu all your ways. I'm grow- 
in' old and shaky, and my beacon lights are nigh played out, and 
when I see your form a fadin' out o' sight down yonder bay, (shakes 
Ills head) I'll never set my eyes on your manly face again. So, you 
will take my last advice, and blessing wi' it. Be a good man all your 
]iie—(}chispers )— don't take to drinkin', Enoch, as is the way with 
sailors, for it often makes a sea o' trouble twixt yourself and (winks) 
your old 'oonian — that is, your wife. 

Enoch. (L.c.) Thanks, old friend, I'll heed your words— and 
what ye said about your love for me I'll carry with me to the grave, 
for ye have a kindly heart, old man! (Shake hands again. ) Now 
he whom ye have treated worse than all the restive know well whom 
I mean — old Peter Lane himself, will soon lie down and rest for good. 
And if of that good advice you gave to me you'd only take a part it 
would be a drop of joy iu a cup nigh filled with sorrow. 



TB£ WAND£BBR S BETUBN. 31 

Peter. I'll heed your words, lad, 'deed I will, even on great occasions 
and (winks) celebrated ewents. 

(Another gun is fired from profile ship. 
Sailor. (In boat, c.) That's the Kecoud signal from the ship, Mr. 
Anlen ! 

Enoch. One moment more for leave-taking, and I'll be ready. 

^//.^e7- Philip Ray, linrrledhj, s.e.u. 
Philip. Enoch, 1 but lately heard of your intended jouruej'. If 
not too late, auci money can straighten you iu your diflficuUies, bind 
you to your home, your children, and your wife, why, I've been 
thrifty, and I'm rich, command my purse, 'tis yours ! 

Annie. (Comes down, L..C.) Thanks, Philip, 'tis a noble act, and 
we are spared the pain of parting. You are indeed a friend iu 
need. 

Enoch, (c.) But it is too late, dear wife, my word is equal to my 
bond : I thank yon, Pliilip, notwithstanding, and never shall I forget 
you for your pioterred aid. 

Sailor. (Inbo<d — Impatiently.) Mr. Arden ! 
Enoch. This instant. The hour now has come and I must go. 
Good-bye to all. 

(Enoch Inirries to boat — Annie .screams, comes n. — Enoch turns 
— They metl again in c. of stage and embrace — Docxoit WiN- 
THBop brings down the children, L. 
Enoch. Annie, Annie, cheer up, be comforted ! Look to the chil- 
dren, for I must go. My time's expired. Fear no more for me, or if 
ye do fear anght, cast all your cares and prayers on Him — He, who 
holds the anchor of the world ! The sea is His — He made it, and can 
destroy — preserve, as well as mak?! 

An)iie. Tiike this, Enoch. (Gives small packet.) 'Tis a lock of 
our dear baby's hair ! 

Enoch. ( Takes and kisses it. ) I'll bring this back with me, my 
girl, when with riches I return to you and home. 

(Music — "Home, Sweet Home" played with muted instruments 
until the act drop is down, wheii it is played forte, 
Enoch. And now, my babe's, good-bye. 
Children. Oh, papa, papa ! 

(DocToB WiNTHROP passes them to Enoch, icJio quickly kisses 
them and again leaves tliem to the Doctor's c((re. 
Enoch. Annie! (She r^ins fi'om i.., embraces him, c.) You'll 
know the time when I'll come back. Your heart will tell who it is, 
and you'll be waiting ou the beach to greet me ! 
Sailor. Mr. Arden ! 
Enoch. God bless you, my darling, God bless you ! 

(He rapidly kisses her two or three times, leaves her, and Jiurries 
up into boat — Annie stands bewildered and dazed, at last stag- 
gers and is aboxd to fill, xclten Philip Ray rnslies forward 
and catches her, us she faints, iu his arms. T'ableuu. 



32 THB WANDEEKR'S EETDEN. 

Enoch standing in boat, which 
is moving away, b.c. 

^•SiTXTB, in Philip's arms. q 



END or ACT n. 



Ten years are supposed io elapse between ike Second and Third Acts, 



ACT III. 



Scene I. — An Apartment at Pete» Lane's Inn. Centre doors, backed 
by Interior. 

Enter Mikiam Lane, c. ; she has a feather duster and commences dust' 
ing the furniture. Music. 

i.- 

Miriam. Now for a nice little tit-bit of gossip, for the Al, first- 
class at Lloyds, chief of all the magpie gossips of this port, is coming 
here to cuckoo all the news to me, and she sent me word of the im- 
portant event, so as not to take a body altogether l)y surprise. 

(She sits down r. of h.c. table, stretches and yawns, 

Enter Peter Lane, caidiously, from c. door. 

Miriam. (Aside.) Here she is! (Aland.) Ah! I hear you, 
Nappy. (Arranges her dress with her hack towards Pidteu.) You 
can't deceive me, my dearee, and what a long time since you have 
been to see me, my lovee ! Why, it's days and days since you've 
crossed the threshold of Lane's Iim. (Peter Lane closes c. door, and 
comes d(>w)i on tiptoe, sils in chair l. of r.c. table. J And I've been 
worked to death almost since that time, for that old man of mine 
won't help me work a leetle bit, for I tell you, Nappy Ealston, one 



THE wanderer's RETURN. 33 



had better have no man at all than have such an apolog}' of a thing 
like — (Discovers Peter — screams) — Ugh ! you brute ! 

Peter. (Sneers.) Miriam Luue, do I resemble Nappy Ralston ? 

Miriam. One way you do, and that's in coming here when you 
are not wanted ! 

Peter. Ha, ha, ha! How Nappy would enjoy that joke if she 
heard it. But as fur poor me, the time you'll want me most will be 
when you're getting me measured for a coffin ! 0-h ! 

( Twinge of the gmd. 

Miriam. (Rises, icilh arms n-kimbo.) Now ain't you 'smamed of 
yourself to talk like that to your loving wife ? 

Ptler. No, I am not ! Look at me ! I'm like a ship that has 
weathered many a storm, and made the owner's fortuu'. You're my 
owner! But now that I'm getting old and there's no more work to 
be had out o' me, and the dry rot's set in, why, you lay me up in or- 
dinary, and let me go to pieces ! 

3Uri(tm. Dry rot indeed, and go to pieces ! Bah ! No wonder, 
for a man to drink as much as you have done. 

Peter. Don't a man get dry 'fore he drinks, else why would he 
drink ? Aud ain't I like a ship— for haven't I niade your fortune —I'd 
like to know? (llnimps the tahle.) I say ain't I like a ship that's 
carried many a cargo ? 

Miriam. Yes, of rum ! Ugh ! 

Peter. I say I am like a ship (ihumps table) with a copper 
bottom ! 

Miriam. And I say you're like an old simpleton (ihumps table) 
with an emptv head ! 

Peter. Bah ! 

(They nig-nag and quarrel, one each side o/r.c. table. 

Miriam. Sliut up ! 

Peter. Hold your tongue ! 
. Miriam. I won't ! 

Peter. I'll make you ! 

Miriam. You're a monster ! 

Peter. You're a 

Miriam. What, what, what ? (Jumping up from table. 

Peter. An old mermaid ! 

(Miriam screams, ami makes for him across the table. Peter 
protects his head with his arms ichiie .she claics at him. 

Nappy Rdsion. ( Speaking outside, c. ) Drat you, you young scal- 
awag. If you laugh at me, I'll 

Enter Nappy B.m.ston, c. door, followed by a boy, icho laughs at her— 
she hits Iiim over the head with her large umhrella and drives him off 
door, and comes down to k. table. 



Wappy. Here I am. my dearee ! Lor' bless yer, give us a kiss ! 

(Kisses Miriam— Peter coughs and turns aside, l. 



34 THE WANDEUEB's KETUBN, 

Miriam. Peter! { 7o Nappy.) Sit dowu, Nappy, my love, you 
are looking weary-like aiul care-worn. 

Nappy. Miirry coiiie up, mid so I ain, which the only wonder is 
that I've been able to f<et here at all. Ju«t to tliink of where I've been 
to-day. At the Ward's, and at the Ware's, and at the Tompkins', and 
at the Simpson's, and the Smithses; and ye know what Iri^httul 
lalkers they all are, luy dearee ; they are every one, and no mistake, 
which they are! And all had tronbles of their own to tell, and 
troubles (>f their neifj;hbors, and troublfS of ever\hody else and where 
they couldn't find 'em, they made 'em up on their own account, 
which they did ; and the Wards and the "Wares won't speak, and the 
Smiihses and tiie Joneses have hiid a fij.ht, and Jones Ims blackened 
Smith s eyes, anil Smith lias battered Jones' nose. (Laughs.) And 
Smith's dau<^hter was a-goin' to be married to Jones' son, which mar- 
riage is a broken off in consequence, which it is ! And at each place 
I'd have to sit and listeu to their stories of their tightin', and their 
fnssin', and their fmnin', and their a-flurin' up — which they allara 
are ! Oh, it's shockiu', which it is ! 

(Fans herself wildli/ with her handkerchief. 

Feier. And you didn't get a chance to say a word ? What a pity ! 

(Laughs aside. 

Nappy. As a general thing, Mr. Peter Lane, I'm a woman as talks 
but little, which 1 does; (to Miriam) which you know, mydearee! 
Don't you, my love ? 

3Hriam. Certainly, my dear! 

Peter. (To Nappy.) Oh, then this call o' your'u aiu't "a gene7-al 
Hung," as you call it? (Sneers. 

Nappy. You know, Miriam, my pet, how tiresome it is, and how 
provoking, to listen to the talkin', and the fnssin', and the funiin' of 
such a lot o' gossipin' chatterboxes, which they are. The Tompkins' 
and the Simpson's couldn't say a word but some kind of a sort o' 
slander about Piiilip Ray ; and you know, Peter Lane, that he's as 
goodish a kind of a sort of man (turns up her nose) as is to be found 
iu this 'ere wicked world of our'n, now-a-days, as far as one can find 
by looking hard for. Now don't ye ? 

Peter. ( Uneasy. ) Come, I say 

Nappy. (Goes on.) Although, perhaps, he is a-trifling with the 
heart of Annie Lee — but he don't know for sartin that she's a widow 
yet, which I don't think she are, which I don't ! 

Peter. (Rising.) Now, lookee here! 

Nappy. Oil, yes, I Icnow ther's many o' our neighbors censure our 
dear darling Annie. The Simpsons do, and the Joneses, and the 
Tompkins ; they all think she's too soon forgot poor Enoch, and she 
knows not whether he is dead or not, an' she ought not to be a' look- 
ing at anybody else, mnch less a-thinkin' on 'em. It's shocking, 
which it is! Ah, poor man! It would be a bit o' fun it he would 
only a come back suddenly, an' could be a fly ou the wall, an' look at 
all their little mancBuvormgs, and astonish 'em all I He'd better a 



THE -VrANDEREU's KKTURN. 35 

stayed at home than ha' gone to sea, unless it's true what I have 
heard, that she berated tlie poor man iiutil lie couldu't staud it, be- 
cause he wasn't rich and couldn't keep her condortable. 

Feter. (Stopping Jiei- gabbling. ) Hold on, lor heaven's sake. 

Nuppy. (Apologetically. ) Oh, mind you, I don't say that it'n 
true myself, lu tact, I don't believe it, for you know 1 am one as 
never talks about my neighbors, for 'tis not the way to do, for one as is 
a cLristain, which it ain't. I'ni only tellin' word for word what 
peoi)le say to me, the backbiters ! ( Fiuis herself loUh h.andkerddef. 

Peter. AVell, well, old lass, let up, can't ye? Jabbei", jabber, 
jabber ! Now ye've got to stop for breath. You're not tlie fust that's 
come here gossiping about yonx betters ; but I've heard enough of it. 
There's some o' ye as talks o' Peter Lane in some such strain, and 
calls him "that old drunken scamp." (Nappy denies in (hunb skoio. ) 
Oil, yes you do ; I know it ! And as for being a sot, I'm nothiu' o' 
the sort. I never drink except ou great occasions and to celebrate 
ewents, and that will never be again unless it is when Philip marries 
Annie. And if he never does marry her, why the business is their 
own— it's none o' mine or your'n, 3Uss Nappy Ralston ! 

Niippy. (Jumping up cuid tucking mnbrella binder arm. ) Jus' so, 
3Ir, Peter Lane. But I must go ! I never like to stay» and feel that 
I'm pertrudiu', an' if I do stay I shall mortify. ( Goes up c. ) I know 
I shalh 

Miriam. (Stops Iter.) Don't take offence. Miss Nappy, and never 
mind what Peter says. It's the beer as talks, not Peter ! He likes 
to hear the sound o' his own voice when he's that way, that's why he 
provokes folks as he does. 

Peter. (Laughs heartily.) Lord help the man as tries to bolxJ his 
own with you two blabs. 

Miriam. There are lies a-flyin' round this place in plenty ; lies 
hatched out by them as has nothing else to do but hatch "em. And 
then they're peddled round by them as has nothiu' else to do but 
peddle 'em, drat 'em ! 

Nappy. (Bristling up.) Yer meaning me, I suppose!' Do you, 
mum? 

Miriam. I said there were people here as did the like o' that, but 
I didn't say you. 

Peter. But that shoe fits like a glove for all that. 

Nappij. I thought you couldn't blame the likes o' me ! 

Peter. (Aside.) No more nor a fish would swim. 

Miriam. Why, the Ardens and the Hays are friends of ours ; and 
didn't Annie mourn for Enoch in the past? And she mourns him 
now, poor girl ; and he, good man, he must be dead, for had he been 
living, long, long a^'o you'd a seen him back, you would. 

Nappy. Well, I'm the last person in the world to say one word of 
harm of any one, or breathe the nasty tittle-tattle that I hear ; much 
less against a friend like Annie Ardeu. Why, we were little girls to- 
gether ! ( Crosses to w 



36 THE wandekek'h eettjun. 

Pder. (Laxighs boisterously.) Ila, Ija, ha! "Little gals to- 
p;etberl" That's the strongest thing in jolies I've heard lor years. 
AVh}', Miss Nappy, you must have heeu bora twice. Ho, ho, ho! 
(Nappt iudl(j)iu)it. ) You and my ok] woman here (Miriam looks hi- 
dignaiit) vere little chicks as growed up side by side together, but 
that's many years ago, and Anuie Lee was born the year when we 
were wed. Ho, ho, ho ! 

(The two loomen walk up mid down the stage, e. and l., furious 
— Peter, c, holding his sides. 
Peter. (T To Miriam. ) Walk, Miriam, walk! 

(Miriam stamps her foot, and goes up and down the stage at a 
more rapid gait. 
Peter. Nappy, walk ! "Walk, Nappy, walk ! 

(Same husi>iess with Nappy— Peter roars afresh, c. 
Kappy. (Down l., turns Peter round to her.) Brute ! 
Miriam. (Same business ou b.) Monster I 
Nappy. (As before. ) You're a heathen ! 
Miriam. ( The same. ) A Hottentot ! 

(Peter bursts into another Jit of laughter, which starts them up 
and down stage again. 
Nappy. To dare to" talk to me ! A woman at my time of life ! 

( Checks herself. 
Peter. Yes, I know your age, for I had a notion once of marryiu' 
you myself. 

Nappy. Oh, indeed ! I'ou're the only one of us two as hed the 
notion then. 

Peter. Yes, but 'twas only a notion, for I kept it to myself ! 
Nappy, Oh, I understand that fling ! But many a better man 
than Peter Lane have /refused. ( Tosses her head. 

Peter, No ! I didn't think you ever had the chance ! 

(Laughs and crosses to l. — Nappy cries inc. 
Miriam, (e.) Don^t mind this man of mine, Miss Nappy, for he's 
never content unless he's guzzlin' somewhere with men, or wrangling 
elsewhere with women ! 

Nappy, Oil, bless you, I don't mind him, Mrs. Lane. No, no, I 
— I r — a — ther like it I (Bursts oid crying.) The neighbors all say 
he's getting childish like and is in his dotage, 

Peter. Hear the clackin' o' her tongue, now ! Clack, clack, claclr, 
quack, quack, qua — qua — qua — qua — quack, quack, quack ! 

(Nappy makes a blow at him witli her umbrella — Peteu laughs, 
and gets away from her. 
Nappy. Never mind, it'll keep ! Good-bye, dear Mrs. Lane, and 
when I come to see you another time, I hope you'll be alone. Away 
— from — your — sweet Peter ! (Peter lauglis — s/te holds tip umbrella. ) 
But I don't bear malice ! Y'ou only come my way, Mr. Lane, and 
have a social cup of tea all alone with me, and I'll make it strong, and 
sweet, and hot. (Aside.) I'd like to scald him ! (Aloud.) With 
plenty of cream— the cream of human kindness ! Ugh I (She grins 



THE wanderer's RETURN. 37 

— Peter laughs — Nappy at c, door, turns. ) Ob, I'd scratch liis eyes 
out! (ExUsc, 

Miriam. Peter Laue, I'm nsbanied of you ! You ongbt to know 
better than to talk iu such a way to a woman — a poor lone wouiau ! 

Peter. What! (Laughs.) Call that wild cat of a thiu<4 a woman? 
A creature that comes into your house with slanders ou her tongue, 
to injure the reputation of honest folk, and blast the hai)pJneKS of 
one's truest Iriends? You ought to talk with more sense, Miriaiu ! 

Miriavi. Hold your tongue, Peter ! 

Feler. I shan't, madam ! A woman is only deserving the name of 
woman when she knows how to respect herself, and has feeling 
enough iu her heart to feel for the troubles and the woes of others ! 
All else is leather aud prunella! (A sudden thought. ) I'll go aud 
celebrate the eweut ! (Rans aid c. door, hurriedly. 

Miriam. Come back, you wretch ! I'll tear your wig off for you, 
when I get near you ! (Follows out c. door. Closed in. 



Scene II. — A Room at Dr. Winthrop's. Doors r. and l. in flats. 
First Grooves. 

Enter Dr. "Winthrop, door r.f. 

Dr. W. Before I am an hour older I will have a talk with Annie 
Arden. The little store is running down, and well I know she hath 
no means of replenishing her stock. There is another little matter, 
too ! I know I have no business meddling with the love affairs of 
anyone, but Philip Ray could end this life of struggle aud distress, 
yet fears to speak to her, as she mourns bo bitterly for Enoch. Poor 
Philip ! He loves her as ardently now as when they were children, 
playing ou the waste together ; but Annie loves the memory of the 
husband dead these long, long years. But she ought to let that go : 
her present duty is to the living, and I feel it a duty ou my part both 
to the living and the dead to try and set matters right. 

Enter Peter Lane, door l.f, 

Peter, (l.) Well, and you're the man to set matters right. Doctor. 
And while ye'r iu the business of a rigtin' up o' things, I want a lot 
o' doctor's stuff to set me right. 

Dr. W. (Laughs.) Some doctor's stuff to set you right, Peter? 
Put out your tongue, man, aud let me see the trouble that's on your 
stomach. 

Peter. I needn't show my tongue for this affliction. It's tongue 
that caused it. I kuow ye for a learned man, Doctor, aud if ye cau 
stop other people's tongues from cackliu' and a-gossipiu* about their 



38 THE wanderer's ketubn. 

betters, you would do a might of good aud cure the feeliu's that's a- 
tronbliu' o' lue now. 

Dr. W. Ah, uiuu, I can do no good in such a case, It's only 
death can stop the clacldiig of the gossips. 

Peter. But you're the doctor here, and look'ee what a chance 
you've got to stop tlds brood of cacklers ! If I were the doctor iu 
this town, see how I'd hurry death along for some on 'eui. 

Dr. W. You would not do that any more than I. You would not 
harm a worm, good Pt-ter ! 

Peter. AVotddn't 1 ? I'd crunch 'em under my big number ten. 
(Stavips Ills' foot. J But these worms are feminiues, and Ciin cackle 
as well iis crawl. The parson said the other day that every lie they 
tell is goin' lo be set down agiu 'em. Now to think o' all the lies 
they's telliu' round o' Annie Ardeu and her troubles. Oh ! 

(Strikes tlie top of Ids lud in. 

Dr. W. Never mind them. There is not throughout all England 
one of England's daughters that hath been a better wife, or a truer to 
Enoch Arden, or his memory, than our dear Annie. Y'es, Peter 
Lane, sometimes I feel a burning and an ugly feeling firing up this 
heart of mine when I hear some of tlie trash and gossip of the lazy 
ones, about that friend of ours who is sleeping ueath the waters of 
some Southern sea, whose head is pillowed, perhaps, ou a little 
mound of sand at the bottom of the mighty deep. The sand that's 
ever moving silently, but surely ; that sand that's covered softly o'er 
Lis body like a funeral shroud. I feel it deeply. (Moved. 

Peter. Yes, aud the little fishes all a-eatin' ou him up ! J feels it 
deeply. ( Wipes his eyes. 

Dr. W. (Crosses ioL,.) I shall go talk to Annie now, and to these 
gossips I'll drop a hint or two that may blossom and bear fruit. 
Don't heed their tales, good Peter, nor listen to their talk, for there's 
a time for righting up the troubles of us all ! (Exit i,. 

Peter. It would take a long lime to right up my troubles. If m}' 
old 'ooman would stop her clack, I could make a shorter cut. ( Uses 
handkerchief. ) But I think I'll go aud celebrate the ewent. 

(Follows out T,. 



Scene III. — A Boom at Aeden's. A large open latticed vnndow, in c. 
(fflfUs, with, curtains draioi apart, through, which is seen the sea be- 
yond. G<nize for vision to be seen behind, let in at the top of e. flat. 
Door in flat l. 

Annie Aeden discovered r,. of icindow, looking through. The reflection 
of the moo)i is apo)i her figure. Music. 

Annie. Ten long years have passed away and still my Enoch 
comes uot. Oh, my husband, father of my childreu, Low Lave I 



THE WANDERER'a EETURN. 39 

nionvnecl your loss. Yet will I not believe j'oii dead, though nil try 
to dissuade me still hope lives strong within nie ! Tlie sen is caliu 
and placid — aluiost as smooth as glass — and the moou shines brightly. 
iinch. a night as this it was oii the eve when my husband left me ! 
Ten long weary years and no ray of hope, no sign, no word of the 
living or the dead! How strange and weird and death-like seems 
this stillness all above stud aroimd the migiity deep! ( Opens Vie 
lointlow and looks out.) Not a murmur — and the air is hot and sultry. 
The faiutt-st ripple of the waters alone cau I hear as they break ia 
little bubbles o'er the shingles oa tlie beach. ( Closes ike loiiulow and 
dniios curtohis.) There! I'll look no more, but try to calm my 
Wearied thouglits by reading, to while away my loneliness. (Leaves 
Vie windoio (Did sils (dtuhle, u. ; sfie tarns iip the lump. Music ployed 
from the ihue of the xoindoio closbuj nnlH i!i.e lamp is tamed up. ) How 
wildly beats my heart, and a feeling doth come o'er me ahnost akiu 
to terror, for I see the form of Enoch before my eyes continually. 
( Slie opens the Bible.) How earnestly have I prayed for a sign, that 
I might know if he be dead. I'll seek for cue in this, the Holy Book, 
where all must go for help or consolation. (Tableau. Music played 
ilirough dialogue — mided insirnmeuts — imtil the vision is over. bhe 
places her finger on a verse in the Bible.) "Under a palm tree!" 
What is there ia that for me? Under a palm tree! (Becomes 
dazed.) Yes, I see Enoch — he waits for me under a palm tree. 
Under the palm tree that grows by the river of life! (She leans her 
head upon the table, iceeping. Lights arranged quickly before and 
behind the scene, when the vision is seen beliind gauze over r.f., disclo- 
sing Enoch under a palm tree, in the. same dress as the one worn on the 
day of his departure. Tableau — Music eiuis.) Oh, Enoch, Enoch! 
(Starts up wildly, and looks round tremblingly at the place where she 
saw the vision — shrinks. ) AVhere am I ? (Feels the Bible, lamp, &e. ) 
Yes, iu my own room. (Runs quickly to loindow, draws curtains 
apart, looks out, and prdls them to again.) There is nothing there, 
and yet I saw him plainly, as oa the day of his departure! (Gomes 
hack to Ji.c. table— seems bewildered.) When will this mystery end? 
( Giving way to her feelings, j Oh, Enoch, Enoch, come back again 
to me, and end this agonizing misery ! 

(Fidls in chair, a)ul buries her face in her hands — weeping at 
table. 

Enter Philip Eat, door l.f. 

FJiiUp. (At doorxcay.) There she is, poor girl, ever fretting and 
sighing, wearing her young life away ! ( Closes door and comes down. ) 
Annie, I — (Going to her, slops)— hnt no, she is nervous, and I might 
fri^'hteu her. (Advances quietly and calls her.) Annie, Annie 
Arden ! 

Annie. (Looking up wildly.) Who's there? f/Sees Philip— peaces 
her hands in his. ) Oh, it's you, is it, Philip ? 



4d THE WANDEREB's RETURN. 

Philip. Still weeping, Annie ? ( Shakes his head. 

Annie. I've beau looking for a sign, to know if he be among the 
living or the dead ! 

Philip. (Aside. ) Will she never give np looking for the one that's 
dead ? (Aloud.) Annie, the ship in which your husband sailed was 
lost. 

Annie. Yes, the ship was lost, but the crew? Are they all gone? 
I have my doubts. 

Philip. He whom ye loved so fondly and so truly, Annie, is 
now 

Annie. (Stops him quickly.) Don't, don't say that word, friend 
Philip ! I've been searching for a sign in this the Holy Book, to 
know if be be dead. My finger rested upon these words, "Under a 
palm tree 1" 

Philip. Ah ! Then you think that he is 

Anjiie. With the blest ! (Looks reverently above. 

Philip. Annie, can I speak? 

Annie. Speak? ( Looks at him. ) Speak, friend Philip. 

Philip. Annie, there's a subject shackled upon my mind, and it 
has been imprisoned there so long, that, though I know not how or 
whence it first became enslaved, I feel that it must be set free at last. 
It is against all chance, beyond all hope, that he who left you ten 
long years ago should still be among the living. You say yourself 
that you believe he is with the blest above. 

Anyiie. (Hopefully.) And yet he may be among the living, 
Philip! 

Philip. It cannot be, Annie ! Oh, if you but knew how I do grieve 
to see you poor and wanting help, and I cannot help you as I could 
wish to do— unless — they say that women are so quick — perhaps you 
guess what I would have you learn — I wish you for my wife then, 
Annie, and fain would prove a father to your children. I do think 
they love me as a father, and I am sure that after all these sad, un- 
certain years we might be still as happy as any of His creatures. I 
have loved you long, and silently, and ardentl}', dear Annie. Then, 
think upon it, for I am well to do, no kin, no care, no burthen. 
Then let me bestow my care upon you and yours. Be a husband 
unto you, a father unto your children ! We have known each other 
all our lives, dear Annie, and I have loved you longer than you can 
well remember. 

Annie. You have been as Heaven's good angel in our house, and 
He will bless you for it. But you are worthier of some one happier 
than myself! 

PhiHp. No, Annie, no ! Place yourself under my charge and 
guidance, let nie soothe your sorrows — I will convert them into joys. 
You are the friend of my childhood, the love of my riper years, and 
are the only one I want. You chose the best among us years ago, 
dear Annie, but be is gone. 



THE wanderer's RETDHN. 41 



Avnie. Can one love twice iu one life, Philip ? Can j'ou be ever 
loved as Euoch was ? 

Fh'dip. I will be content to be loved a little after Enoch. 

Annie. Dear Philip, wait a little. For should Euoch ever 
come 

Fiiilip. Enoch will never come ! 

Annie. (Giving icay to despair.) No, no, he cannot come, he has 
been too many years away ! But, Philip, wait auotlier year. One 
year is not so loug to wait. Surely I shall be wiser iu a year. Oh, 
Philip, wait a little, for my sake ! Do ! 

Philip. I am used to waiting, Annie, for I have waited all my Ufa 
for thee, and surely I well may wait a little longer now. 

(He lurns to go — site calls him — he stops, 

Annie. (Reaches her hands toward him.) Philip, you have my 
promise— iu a year (he takes her hand and kisses it) I will ba 
thine ! 

Philip. Oh, Annie, Annie, mine at last. (She tceeps, and sinks in 
chair at table — Aside.) She is mine, yet why does she weep? Aye, 
'tis for the one that's gone. Her heart is buried with him— with the 
dead — iu the deep bosom of the wide ocean. I do her wrong to 
wring from her a promise, and will retract. (At doorway l.f. ; calls 
bach to her.) Annie, Annie, (she looks up and turns to lam) when I 
spoke to you of love — of marriage — it was iu your hour of weakness. 
I was wrong. ( Going out at doorway. ) / am always bound to ?/om, 
but you are free ! (Exits door l.f. 

Annlfi. No, I am now bound to you, Philip, (rises) at home, 
wide, far, or near. I'll be thy wife in another year ! 

(Music — "Home, Sweet Home" —muled. She falls kneeling 
at the chair, and praying. Lights arranged for second vision. 
Enoch appears behind the gauze in the dress he loill wear dur" 
ing the next act, surroimded by wild and rocky sea-coast 
scenery. Tableau, Act drop slow* 



END OP ACT in. 



One year is supposed to elapse between the Third and Fourth Acts* 



^2 TH£ WANDSBEK'S B£TUBN. 



ACT IV. 



Scene I. — The JExterior of Enoch Akden's Cottage, i,. — dilapidated. 
Sludters tip to toindow.t. Sign hodvd haitgnuj over door, toUk the 
words, ** For Sale." Horizon backing. Sd wattrs and grounil row. 
Tlie water-tub, l^., off \ts stand. Ptanp, broken, s.e.r. Broken 
paling, v.'E.-R. Lights half down. Music — "Home, Sweet Home" 
— played before the curtain rises and coidinued till 

Enoch Aeden enters u.e.k. ; he is careworn, in tattered garments, and 
Ida liair and beard are grey j he sits on the old form. 

Enoch. (Smiles sadly. ) Anchored at last— securely moored in the 
safe Larborage of home ! (Looks round at back. ) Yes, Lome — tbiit 
Lome which I left for parts unkuown, ( Ooes up c.) Here floated 
the sliip's boat which took me from the shore, aud there, (points to 
the horizon, on ihe:R.) that floatiuf;; coffiu, the sliip "Good Fortune." 
(Laughs.) What a name! •'Good Fortune!" I, who was once 
spry, strong, aud lion-hearted, am now (looks at himself) but a mere 
wreck, bent aud broken. (He )ias come down stage, and is about to 
sit on the broken stool, which gives way; he moves ui cay and sits on 
form; sighs.) How strange I feel to-day! My liauds are cold, 
(rubs them) my eyesight dim, aud I — (Stares vacantly) — I can hard- 
ly see! (Looks round to k. ) And the once bright colors that made 
our happy home look cheerful, they, too, seem dimmed with years, 
and (looks again at Jiis garments and sighs) luisty like its owner. 
(Ilises firmly and with outstretched arms, looks up. ) But I am home 
once more, home to Annie Ardeu and the dear children ! (Bubs and 
clasps his hands gleefully. ) Oh, won't my iass be glad to see n)e ! 
(Belapses.) I hope bhe has not given me up for dead, for that would 
be more awful than all my Bufferiugs! (Sn dies faintly.) She'll not 
not know me though at first, 1 look so old, so broken down aud grey- 
like. Oh, but I'll grow young again when I see my wife! That is, 
if she and the dear children are yet alive. ( Childishly. ) I'll go 
round now to the back the house, enter her small store, aiid sit there 
like a stranger waiting to be served, enjoy the joke, and at the last 
only, wheu I have teased them well, will I tell them who I am. 

(Pleased and chuckles to himself; he gradually moves down c, 
with Ids back to Annie. 

Enter Annie Auden (Daughter), running and laughing, from r. 

Annie, (r.c.) He tried to catch me, and I ran away. Oh, what 
fun ! (Looks u. ) Here he comes ! 



THE wandebeb's eetubn. 43 



(Tunis to go l., and meets Enoch face to facf — she appears 
frightened, irembies at his appearance, and reniai)is rooted to 
the spot. Enoch stares Iji a dazed and vacaiit manner, keep- 
ing his eyes fixed upon her features, as if endeavoring to bring 
them back to his recollection, when lie places his fingers on liis 
forehead and draws them away. Music — "Hoiue, Sweet 
Home," — muted in.strianenls. They move round the stage — 
each one's eyes fixed upon the others — Annie ^r.sf <o l. , lohen 
her face is full to the audience, then Enoch, loith his back to 
them — gfoes L.c. — Annie, b.c. 
Enoch. (Sighs, iu.c.) She walks like Aimie used to walk, aud 
looks like Auuie. (Shakes Ids head. J But uo, no, no, she is too 
youug ! (Sighs.) Ob, my heart! 

(He moves away, keeping Jus eyes fixed on Annie until offi,., 
when music ends. 
Annie. What a strange old man ! He did so frighten me at first ; 
but I don't there is auy harm in him. Perhaps he was hungry. 
Poor fellow ! 

Enter Philip Ray, from e. 

Annie. Ah, here you are, papa, and you've caught me, haven't 
you? That is, I mean, I've caught you ! (Laughing. ) Aud do you 
know I'm going to scold you ? (She takes his hand,) Aud don't you 
think you deserve it ? 

Philip. (Laughing.) What for, my darling? What has papa 
Philip done ? 

Annie. (Serious.) AVhy, everything ! Haven't you kept us wait- 
ing, aud don't you think by that you've done enough? Isn't that 
Bufficient to make mother oh, ever so mad ? 

(Smiles a7id shakes his hands heartily, 

Philip. And is mother just as mad as you are, my dear ? 

Annie. Ah, now you are poking fun at me again. Well, never 
mind, if mother scolds, but I don't she will ! (Quickly.) But if she 
does, I'll take your part. There? 

Philip, You are an angel, Auuie ! 

Annie. Oh, no, I'm not, papa, or I wouldn't have frightened a 
poor old sailor who was here just now. 

Philip. A poor old sailor ! Here? 

Annie. Yes, papa. I was scared at first, but I don't think there 
was auything to fear from him. He might have been a shipwrecked 
sailor, for he looked woe-begone enough aud ragged enough for oue. 
I never saw a shipwrecked sailor ; but then I've read about them, you 
know. 

Philip. (Aside.) A sailor— an old sailor— shipwrecked? 

Annie. What are you saying to yourself, papa Philip ? 

Philip. Nothing, my dear. I was only thinking. (Muses. 

Annie. Thinking that that poor shipwrecked sailor was hungry, 



44 THE wandeeer's return. 

perhaps. (Places her arms round Philip's neck. ) If he called npou 
lis, iiud he was hungry, we'd give him food and shelter, wouldu't we, 
papa ? 

Fliilip. Yes, yes, ray dear ! 

Annie. (Looking after Enoch, l.) Poor old man ! I do so feel for 
Lini. I hope he isn't hungry. (To Philip.) Oh, I wouldn't like 
you to go away hungry from our house, papa, if you were poor ! 

Philip, Come, come, my Annie, we must not keep your mother 
waiting. Let us go ! 
Annie. Yes, papa ! (Sighs. ) Let us go home ! 

(Music — "Home, Sweet Home" — muted hisirwnents. Annie 
looks back after Enoch, l., her eyes almost filling icith tears. 
Philip leads her off, n., she fixing her eyes in Enoch's direc- 
iion. 



Scene IL — A Front Wood. '•Home, Sweet Home" continued from, 
the previous scene until 

Enoch Arden enters from r. 

Enoch, Wrecked in sight of port ! Pilot house and pilot both are 
gone, and the danger signal flying at the fore — "For Sale." (Mind 
wanders.) Home! A-b ! (Sighs.) Cbildreu and wife, like sire, 
wandered, perhaps, only to founder ! Perhaps they are dead — dead 
— dead! ( Weeps.) And / am here ! Dead to kindred, dead to all 
the world! What is there for me to live for? Ot all my friends — 
alike, if kith or kin — of those that stood upon the beacli to see me 
leave, not one to give me welcome back again, or greet me to their 
shore, as I once so fondly dreamed they would in days gone by. All 
turned from, and all shunned, me, same as they would slink away 
frcm one whom they had long mourned as dead! That young girl, 
too! So like unto my Annie! ( Shakes Ids head. ) And yet, so tall, 
BO grand! But, then, I've been away for years — wrecked and lost for 
years — and I've grown grey since I've been away ; and yet, to huve 
grown out of remenil)rance of one's own child ! Jfs time that I were 
dead! Children, wife, babe, all gone! May the husband's turn soon 
come! House and store, too, dark, still, and empty ! Ruin within, 
ruin witliout, and ruin at tlie heart ! For in the dim, uncertain light, 
I read the sign outside what once was home. '-For Sale!" (Looks 
round.) Where now can I go for shelter? What can I do, or where 
look, and to whom, for hope? I'll go to Ptter Lane! (Going.) 
See there— if he be living— whether he also will shun and flee frouj "me 
lis dead? (Mill., 



THS 'WAS7D£BEB'S SETUBN. 4JS 



Scene III. — Mieiam Lane's Jjm. J>oorT.E.L, 

Miriam Lane (attired in mowning) discovered seated at table k.c, 
working. 

Ifiriam. Dearee me, how louely all dotli seem to be, surely» 
now tbitt iny poor Peter is no more. Ah ! He often said I'd be the 
death of him with uiy tongue ; but, Lor' bless me, 'twas the nasty 
liquor he pat down over ]iis tongue tliat quieted him at last ! One 
cau't celebrate so many ewents, as he used to call 'eiu, wi'out paying 
sumniat for tlie celeljrations ! Poor Peter! He's in his lone grave, 
and I'm left all alone to battle with the world as a lone widder ! 

Hater Dk. Winthrop, door t.e.l. 

J)r, W. (li.) Well, Widow Lane, you are all alone, I see ! 

Miridvu (u.c. ) Yes, Doctor, all alone ! Only my needlework to 
keep me company. ( Sujhs. 

Dr. W. (Sighs. J It's catching ! CSils uc.) I have been to see 
the ailing sick, and humoreil all their whims ; and now I have a little 
time to chat with you, fair widow, for well I know that you are lone- 
some now that he is gone. 

Miriim. Lonesome? That I am ! There are not many stopping 
at Lane's Inn these days, and oh, the time it really seems to \no\e so 
slow and d rear j'-l ike. Why, the longest days of all my life have been 
the ones that have passed since Peter Lane was laid away to rest. 

(Pals doroi her work. 

Dr. W. I doubt it not ! Your old man— I mean poor Peter— had 
his failings, as we all know, but then he was a jolly soul and carried 
round with him, where e'lr he went, as kind a heart as one could 
find throughout all England. (Moves nearer to her.) But what's 
the use of mourning or of fretting 'bout him now, dear widow? 
Grieving never brought a soul back into the world, and the pleasures 
of life (sighs) are for the living, not the dead. 

(He twiddles his thumbs. 

Miriam. I'm not a grievin' or a frettin' ov^er him, Doctor. I was 
only talkin' of my lonely lot in life ! 

( She looks at him, sighs, and then twiddles her thumbs. 

Dr. W. (Looks round approvingly, and gets nearer to lier.) You 
keep a nice public house here, Widow. What an obnoxious term that 
is of widow ? It seems like a cotiuterfeit, and ought to be changed 
for good ! (Sighs and gd^ closer to Iter — she sighs. ) There ought to 
be a man in charge of this same house, dear widow ! 

( Twiddles his thumbs, 

Miriam. I know that, dear Doctor. 

(Looks up at him, and twiddles— they both sigh together. 



46 THE wanderee's beturn. 



3firiam. 0-h, Doctor! 

Dr. W. You lire still youug« 

Mlrbim. 0-h ! 

Vr. W. Good lookiug ! 

Miriam. 0-h ! 

Dr. W. Bnxum! 

Mirlnn. O-h ! 

Dr. W. Kipel 

Jlir'uun. 0-h, Doctor ! 

Doctor. You \vant pluckiiig, widow ! (Siyhs. 

3lirii(m. Doctor, you make me bluish ! 

Dr. W. BInshiiJg and ripe, red aud rosy, charming widow. Then 
why don't you marry iigaiu ? (Pals Ids arm round her icaist. 

Miriam. (Her face close to his.) But who will I marry, Doctor? 

( Sighs. 

Dr. W. Hey ? Why, marry the first good man that asks yf)u, 

Miriam. I've made up my mind to that, but it has done uo good 
so far. They're backward in comiug forward, Doctor. 

Dr. W. Well, then, charmiug aud adorable widow, I've been 
thiukiug that 

Mder Enoch Akden, door t.e.l. 

Dr. W. Bother ! Here's a customer ! (Rises. 

Miriam. Don't be iu a hurry, Doctor, he may not mean to stay. 
(Aside.) When he was comiug to the point, too ! How provoking! 

(Du. WiNTHROp goes np stage' 

Enoch. Can I find lodging here for the night, good madam ? 

Miriam. You can. No traveller ever a.sks for shelter or for food 
at Lane's Inn, but what he gets it, thjit is, if he in looks be decent- 
like at all. Are you a traveller and a stranger in this port ? 

Enoch, (c. ) A traveller? Yes! But I am no stranger. I've 
"been iu this port before. 

3firiam. (ii.c.) A traveller by laud or sea ? 

EiiocJi. I've ji;st come off the sea. (Aside.) Miriam Lane and 
Doctor "VVinthrop — I know them well, but they know me not. 
C Sighs. ) Am I then so changed ? ( Crosses to l. 

Dr. W. ( Listening athackt i,.c.) That voice! I think I've heard 
it Komewhere before. 

Miriam. Aye, like enough. He saj-s he has been here to the port 
before, 

Dr. W. It seems more like the voice of one I knew iu days gone 
by, but who or where I cannot tell. I'll come again, good Mistress 
Lane. 

Miriam. I'll look for ye. (Ecit Dr. Winthrop, t.e.l. — To 
Enoch.) You've been a sailor in your day, you say ? That must 
Lave been many years ago, good friend, for now, I judge, your day is 
past, you look so old and feeble ! Sit down and rest, old man I 



THE wanderer's RETURN. 47 

Enoch. (Aside. ) Old man, indeed ! (Aloud. ) I've been a 
sailor in my dn}', good madam, though, as you say, I'm broken down 
and feeble now. (Sils l.c, and .sighs heavily. 

Miruim. (Aside.) Poor man! He Buffers much! (AUmd.) 
'^Vhat a hard and toilsome life that of a sailor is, and full of danger, 
too. Is it not so ? 

Enoch. It is, indeed ! A life on the ocean wave, a death under 
the Kileut deep ! 

31iriani. How many poor sailors go to sea that never come back 
agiiiii, Heaven only knows. 

Enoch.. Did any from this little port ever go away to sea, and 
never return, good lady ? 

Miriam. Yes, indeed, more's the pity, old man ! 

Enoch. Lately, may I ask ? 

Miriam. The lu.st was about eleven or twelve years ago. No 
letter, no tidiugs 1 Ah, well, he must be dead ! 

Enoch. And his name? It was 

Miriam. Euoch Arden ! (Enoch s/'gr/is.J He was a fine stalwart 
3'oung fellow, strong and heart}'. You've been strong and hearty 
once, old man, and must know how proud it niust make a body feel. 
(Enoch sighs.) Well, poor Euoch was a friend of ours, and of my 
dead and gone husband, Peter Lane. 

Enoch, Peter Lane — dead ? 

Miriam. Yes, it was a sad ev/eut. 

Enoch. And an — Euoch Arden too? 

Miriam. 13oth dead. Ah ! He was a good husband, a loving 
father, an industrious lad, and the pride of our little port. Well, 
things went wrong with him, somehow, so Euoch — who used to have 
a bout here on the bay — hired as a boatswain on the ship "Good For- 
tune," bound for China. But the ship foundered, or was burnt, or 
something dreadful happened, as none of 'em ever come back to tell 
thetale. Before he left he sold his boat to provide a home and liveli- 
hood while he was gone for his wife and child ! 

Enoch. Ah ! (Excited.) He had a wife, then? 

Miriam. (Surprised.) Why, yes, poor man. Sailors /taue wives 
sometimes, don't they ? 

Enoch. Why, yes, yes ! But is she well-to-do — is she alive ? 

Miriam. Alas ! Poor Annie ! (Enoch much moved — aside — at (he 
mention of his wife's name. Slighi pause.) She seemed to prosper 
well at first, but grew low-spirited as month after month went by 
and no word came from Enoch. Then the youngest child 

Enoch. Yes, yes, the child ! 

Mirhtm. A baby ! 

Enoch. Yes, the little baby I 

Miriam. In its cradle ! 

Enoch. (Aside.) God bless it! 

Mil iam. Well, it always was a weakly one ; and it grew weaker 
and weaker like day after day, and at last the poor thing died. 



48 THE wandereh's retuen. 



Enoch. ( Screams aloud. ) Oli ! 

Miriam, What is the matter, my good man ? 

Enoch. A suddeu paiu here at the heart I (Sighs.) You know I 
—I am so old and feeble ! 

Miriam. Ah ! we none of ns ge't younger, do v:e> ? Well, poor 
Aimie— that was his wife — how I pitied her, her heart was almost 
broke, and her only cry was Euocb, Enoch — ever the name of her 
dear husband. Oh, how she yearned for him the day the baby lay a 
corpse. Old friend, you never saw a creature born of earth so beau- 
tiful — like a little augel carved from marble — as it lay in its little cot, 
so white, so cold, so sweet. And Annie sat there tearless with her 
heart a-breakin', and a-thinkin' of her baby dead, and of her husband 
dead and gone, and both in heaven ! Why, you are crying, old man I 
Don't cry ! 

Enoch. I cannot help it! I've been a husband and a father, 
(cries) and know full well what it is to be away iu distant climes 
and lose a cherished little one at home ! 

Miriam.. Don't weep, good man ! That dead baby's living soul is 
resting there above ! Don't grieve, old man ! I told Annie not to 
grieve when her dear baby died, that it was wrong to fly iu the face 
of Heaven, and that Enoch and his dead haby were there together ! 

(Enoch unable longer to restrain Jus feelings, weeps aloud, and 
takes Miriam bij boili hands. 

Enoch. Excuse these tears ; but that poor dead baby ! 

Miriam. Why, you feel it as much as Annie did 1 Ah, I see you 
have been a husband and a lather ! The best men seem to suffer 
most! 

Enoch. If that be so, judging by my present sufferings, then I 
must be good indeed ! (Smiles bitterly. 

Miriam. Well, Annie waited and she watched, and no tidiuge 
ever came. Year by year she fretted, and she pined, and wasted, and 
grew thinner day by day. At last she too was convinced of Enoch's 
death, and, in answer to the prayer of all of us, to rescue her from 
poverty, and to save her lite 

Enoch. Yes, yes, her life, yes 

Miriam. She married Philip Eay ! 

Enoch. (Starts up.)- What, married? She married to another 
while her first husband (Laughs wildly. 

Miriam. (Frightened. ) What is the matter, my poor man ? 

Enoch. (Recollecting.) Oh, nothing, nothmg ! (With his hand 
to his heart. ) Merely a touch of my old complaint. You know, I 
told you I am so old and feeble ! 

Miriam. Ah, keep calm ! Excitement is bad in extreme old age ! 
Well, Annie, dear girl, is happy in her husband's love, and with 
Enoch's children living with them she is proud as well as happy ! 
(Enoch groans aside. ) Enoch— poor man — I've often thought about 
Lim— but, then, I doubt not ho was cast away and lost ! 



THB wandebeb's betubm. 49 



Enoch' (Dazed, crosses loanderingh/ io b.) Cast away and lost! 
(Aside — solemnly. ) Yes, yes, never to be fotmd ! 

Miruan. (l. ) He Lath a tender heart, poor man ! I can see the 
tears now standings in his eyes, as thonj^h he knew and loved all 
those that I have told him of. (Enoch sinks into a chair u., buries Ids 
face in his Juuids, and silently weeps at table. ) I'll go and build a fire 
lu his room, for I noticed "that he shivered so at times as though he 
had a chill, (Exit Miriam, T.E.ii. 

Enoch. (Bises.) None of the old folks now know me. It is 
well for me, and they never shall, for their own peace sakes ! (Cross 
to c.) I have not loug to live — no — I feel that now — then ^vhy break 
in upon her peace, only to mar it? She is alive, and happy ! So 
Miriam said. Poor baby tho' is dead ! I soon shall start upon the 
isanie long journey after her — the self-same road to follow with one 
so blest. I've stranded upon this shore for death, but when I land 
again there'll be a little one a-standiu* on the sands across the river 
waiting for me, and with her (looks rip) 'twill be for life! But I 
must once more see the dear ones that are left — my Annie — (Checks 
himself) — no, no, not mine, not mine —but the boy and girl belong to 
me. I must gaze on them before my mission ends, then for the veil 
to all ! 

(Exit T.E.L. Music—" Home, Sweet Home "—played till Enoch 
is on Jiis knees in the next scene. 



Scene IV. — Enierior Flats of Philip Rat's Cottage — A front scene. A 
large bay roindoio in b. flat, wiUi while curtaiiis down — to open in the 
centre at the proper time. Door of cottage in t,. flat. The interior of 
cottage to be backed by a chamber. Lime light on behind fl<ds. Lights 
doton in front of stage from the opening of scene. See to the quick 
setting of the stage behind fiats^ ready for the discovery, which is near 
the commencement of the scene. 

Enoch Arden enters, Tj., he crosses over to b., gazes at Vie lighted win- 
dow, turns away, looks again, then falls upon his knees in front of it^ 
and prays. Music — "Home, Sweet Home" ends here. 

Enock. My jewels there, locked up ; and I — the owner of them — 
do not possess the key! It is hanl to bear ! ( Looks at xoindow. ) 
Open then, the precious casket, and let me look upon my dear ones, 
ere I am shrouded in the grave ! ( Clasps his hands. ) Thou that 
didst upliold me as the last and only man upon that lonely isle, up- 
hold me, Father, in my loneliness a little longer. Aid and give me 
Btreugth to withhold from her all knowledge of my presence here! 



so THE wanderek's return. 



Help me not to break in upon lier peace or canse my cliildren sor- 
row ! (He buries fiis face in his hands before ilie loindow, and xoeeps. 
Music. The ctirtains are drawn (jenily vp and asipe from the entire, 
diseoverhuj Annie Auden, Philip Ray, and the two grown-np children 
sealed ul a table reading. Looks itp. ) They are there, my blessed 
ones ! She, my wife, uiui he — oh, let n)e not think of it, the thought 
is ni:uldeniu<jj ! ( llises, and rtins to toiiidow. The cnri(dn descends, 
closing the gronp from his vieto. He tarns aicay in despair. ) What, 
must I not look upon or speak to them, my own? ( Music ends.) 
There, there is no father's kiss for me ! My girl so like her mother — 
my son, too, and not for me! Oh, Annie, Annie I Never will yoa 
know the truth, for never will I break your heart, as mine is broken ! 
(He becomes unconscious, and sinks upon the ground. 

Enter Dr. Winthrop, door l.f. 

Dr, W. (L.C.) I have passed n jolly evening with my friend 
Philip — and who has a better right to i):irtake of his hospitable cheer 
than I ? For have I not caused their happiness? Well, I just made 
her marry him, thouf^h neither of them have the least idea that I 
separately urged them on. (Sees Enoch on ground, ^.c) What's 
this ? Tut, tut, tut ! Too bad, too bad ! An old sailor — and drunk ! 
Ah, those fellows when they get ashore never know when they've had 
enough! (Shakes Enoch.) See here, old hulk, it's t)ad enough for 
one that's young to drink too much, but when an old fellow, with one 
foot in the grave, like you, gets drunk 

Enoch. No, no, not drunk ! Unless my cup of sorrow is running 
o'er, then only am I drunk ! A word ! 

Dr. W. You set a bad example for one so aged. I cannot encour- 
age you. (Exith. 

Enoch. (Starts up.) Drunk! Ha, ha, ha! Is misery then so 
akin to drunkenness that there are but few judges left to detect the 
difference ? ( Laughs wildly. ) It is time that I were goue I ' Galls. ) 
Here, Dr. Winthrop, I know you ! "You shall know me ! Let me lay 
bare my heart, give vent to my woes, end all, and start on my pil- 
grimage to come I (Exitt after Dr. Winthrop, l. Closed in. 



Scene V.— ^ Front Street, 
Enter Dr. Winthrop, hurriedly, from l. 

Dr. W. (Looks hack. ) There's a mystery about that man ! He 
was not drunk ! Why, then, was he prowliug around near Philip's 
door ? Ah, he'a following me I (Qiong n. 



THE wanderer's RETURN. 51 



Entej- Enoch Akden, suddenhj, l. 

Enoch. Stay ! (Goes io him. ) Are yoxi mad ? 

Dr. W. Mail? No! (Aside.) WLat ails the man ? 

Enoch. Then am I drunk? Auswer me ! ( Slumps his fool. 

Dr. \V. No, no, no ! 

Enoch. I (f?/i/ Driiuk with misery and woe! Dr. WinthroP 
fjoiiKj K. ) Stay, I tell you I "Old hulk!" (Laughs.) I have a 
word to Bay— a fiivor to ask from yon! You'll be going back to that 
house, (poinls off x..) where all seemed happiness withiu — where you 
beheld misery — myself — huddled up in rags, without? 

Dr. W. I shall be returning there ! 

Enoch. (QnnmaudhKihj.) Say nothing, then, to them of the man 
you saw crouching before their window panes. The blazing fire 
within looked cheerful to this one homeless man without. The scene 
recalled tlie times of other days, much happier then than now, and 
with the feebleness of (lawjhs satiricdly) *'my old age" 1 sank upon 
the Wet and muddy earth to rest ! Say nothing to them of the event. 
Do you hear me ? Promise me ! 

Dr. W. I do proujise, and \y\\\ keep my word ! 

Enoch. Then fiuewell ! (Going L. Dr. Winthuop follows.) 
Don't follow me ! You'll know me before I die ! (Exit L.. 

Dr. W. And now the mystery's all the greater. But I'm promise 
bound and must not say a word to Philip or his wife ! But I will 
follow hini, discover who and whnt he is, and where he goes to. 

(Ktit, after Enoch, l. Jfasic— " Home, Sweet Home " — played 
until Vie discovery of-—— 



Scene VI. — Miriam Lane's Inn. Wide latticed loindows, b.p., through 
which is seen the sea and horizon beyond. Door in i..flat. 

Enoch Arden discovered lying on a cot, r.c. Miriam Lane sealed ai 
a table, r. 

Enoch, (irrilhing to ilh pain on conch.) Water, water ! Oh, for 
a drop of water to quench the thirst of a poor shipwrecked mariner ! 

(Falls back. 

Miriam. ( Bises and helps him. ) Here, poor man ! (He drinks. 

Enoch. Thanks, thanks ! (Mi-RikiuL places the glass on table. ) It 
is almost over and I shall bear the secret to my grave ! Oh I 

( Groans. 

Miriam. If it is a secret you have upon your soul and yon feel that 
you are going, leave it behind you, and spare pain to others. ( Ten- 
derly. ) idoai hear, old uiuu ? 



52 THE WANDEBER'S RETDEN. 

Enoch. I am not an old man ! Is'fc because my hair, my beard is 
grey, my eye caverned, and my cheek blaucbed, you tbiuk that I am 
old? "lis with terror, pain. Buffering! (Hand upon his heart.) 
Aged at the heart ■with Borrow, but young, though broken in my 
years of hope ! Oh, Annie, Annie Arden ! (Suffers. 

Miriam. ( Star is. ) What — loho ? What know you of Annie 
Arden? Speak, I pray you ! 

Enoch. (Laughs xcihlly.) My secret's here, (hand to heart) and 
I shall bear it with me to my grave ! 

Miriam. Spare others, if yon suffer. Be just ! 

Enoch. I am sparing others, that is why I keep my secret to my- 
self ! Oh, if they but knew, their joy would vanish for all time ! I 
shall not last long, and then it will be safe, safe, safe ! ( Wanders. 

Miriam. No, no ! Patience, and we shall bring you round. Ten- 
der nursing and careful watching, and you Mill be right again. 
(Draics near to lam.) What of this secret and of Annie Arden ? 

Enoch. ( Vaca)ttly and icddly. ) Swear upon this book, then, and 
I will tell you, but you must not divulge it till I am gone ! 

j\[iriam. ( With liand on. hook. ) I promise ! There, 'tis sworn, 
and you need not fear for Miriam Lane. 

Enoch. Enoch Arden — you knew him? 

Miriam. Knew Enoch Arden ? Why, yes, I told you of him — the 
sailor that was lost — held his head high and cared for no man in this 
port. 

Enoch. That was the man ! But now his head is low and body 
bent, and no man cares for him. 1 am that Enoch Arden ! 

(Exhausted. 

Miriam. ( Shakes her head dubiously. ) You — Arden? Nay, nay, 
be was a foot higher than you are, my poor man he was young 1 You 
do but rave ! 

Miriam. I tell you, woman, that I am he! ( Very pathetically. ) 
God has bowed me down and bent 1113' spirit to what you see me! 
Grief aiul solitude have broken body as well as mind, but I am that 
same Enoch Arden who married Annie Lee. ( Poi)ds to heaven. J 
She whose name hath twice been changed by man, and l)oth alive ! 
J married the woman who, while I live to tell it, married Philip Ray ! 

(Pause. 

Miriam. (Sloicly.) And — you — are — Enoch Arden? (Hefabdly 
nods assent to all her questions. J So broken and so gray ! You the 
Enoch Annie mourned for years— the man we all thought dead, and 
who went down in a storm at sea? 

Enoch. Sit, IMiriam, and listen to my story ; nor will you wonder, 
when you hear it, jit the shattered wreck you see before you. (Music 
— descriptive -phiyed through Enoch's v urr alive. ) Our voyage out 
was fair — we traded, set s:iil lor home, the storm came on which 
Avrecked onr ship, juid drowned our crew. The captain, a sailor, and 
myself drifted on that wild sea all nij^ht, the rest were lost! We 
stranded upon an island. They that lauded with me died, and I was 



THE WANDEKER'a EETURN. 53 

left alone on an almost barren M-aste, a shipwrecked sailor waiting 
lor a SHil. How long the ye-irs 1 waited tor that sail ! The dii^s 
seemed weeks, weeks months, months were years, and years were ages 
to me tlieu! One day, in delirious sleep, I heard the bells of this 
port ring. Tht^y rang out merrily across the ocean to me, like they 
did the (lay I wed my Annie, I wondered then what made nie hear 
those bells. I kuow*^ uow. (Shudders.) A ship touched there at 
List, I Wiis taken on board, we sailed away, and lauded at this port. 
' I went to what was once my home, That home was empty, its in- 
mates gone. You told me of her grieving and her waiting, 1 went 
to look upon her dear face again, to see if she were happy. It broke 
my heart. But I <mi happy now. I feel that I am going, for I'm 
drifting to a fairer port than any here on earth ! ( Music ends. 

Miriam. (Rises.) Enoch Arden, will you see your children? 
(He txcriis mcay. ) Do let me fetch them to you ? 

Enoch. Disturb me not ! Let me hold my purpose till I die ! 

Sit again ! (She siis.) Heed me, while I have the power to speak. 

Tell her, (moved) that I died blessing her and our dear children ! 

,,^ To Philip, that I prayed for bim, too. He never meant us anything 

^■jljut good ! And if my children, who hardly knew me living, care to 

Bee me dead, why let them come. But slie nmst not, for my wan 

y/face woidd vex her after life ! (Miriam kisses his hand.) And now 

/ there is but one of all my blood who is waiting to embrace me, and 

he is there (poiids np) in the world to come ! This hair wms his. 

(Produces the lock he received in the second act.) She cut it off and 

gave it to me on the day I went away. I have borne it with me all 

these years and thought to bear it with me to my grave. But now 

my mind is changed, for soon (looks upward) I shall see my little 

babe in heavenly bliss ! When— I— am — gone— give— her— this, — it 

may bring comfort, and must be a token that I was her lost Enoch 

Arden ! (Pause. 

ILiriam. (Turns her head and speaks aside.) Poor man! If it 
was not that I was promise bound, I'd bring his children even now 
to see the last of him before he died. 

Enoch. ( In delirium. ) Ah, there is the old home— but empty- 
she is gone ! Tut, tut, tut! Why don't she sail faster? Ah, there's 
Annie down on the beach a-waiting for my coming ! 1*11 signal her ! 
( Waves his hand. ) Why, where are the little ones ? 

Mnhnn. He's out of liis right mind. He thinks he's coming back 
from sea ! Enoch Arden, let me letch yonr children ? 

EiiocJi. Yes. bring the babes, and I'll have the boat read}'. We'll 
all die together! 

Mirijnn. Still crazy-like ! But I would have his children see him 
once before he goes. I can't leave him. 

Enter Dr. Winthrop, door l.f. 

3firiam. Ah, here is Dr. Winthrop ! Doctor, go to Philip Kay's, 
and bring Enoch Arden's children here at once. 



54 THE 'wandkreb's eetuen. 

T)r. W. Enoch Ardeu's ! Why ? 

Miriam, There lies their father, and he's dyiug ! 

(Points to Enoch. 
I>r. W. They just now passed me at the door. I'll call to theiu ! 

(Exit door L.F. All is sileut 
Enoch. A sail, a sail ! (Laughs wildly.) I am saved ! 

( Fulls hack dead. 

He-enter Dr. Winthrop, door l.f., xcith Enoch's son and daughter. 

Miriam. He is gone ! There is yonr father ! Kueel, children, 
kueel ! ( Children kneel c, hy couch. ) Pray for the peace of the f>ood 
Enoch Asden ! (Music — •' Home, Sweet Home !" 2'ableau. 



DisposUion of Characters. 



, on CHir.DBEN Jcneelinn 
.c^^'^ r ly couch, c. •" ^^ ^ 






CUBTAIN. 



THE A.]>i:^TETJR HT^OE. 


PRICE 15 CENTS EACH. 


1 Aladdin and the Wonder- 


21 Harlequin Little Red Rid- 


44 Mischievous Bob. 


ful Lamp. 


ing Hood. 


45 A Pint of Ale. 


2 The Loves of Little Bo- 


22 Fireside Diplomacy. 


46 The Last Drop. 


Peep and Little Boy Blue. 


23 Ingomar (Burlesque). 


47 The Wine Cup. 


3 Little Silver Hair and the 


24 Money Makes the Man. 


48 Out in the Streets. 


Three-Bears. 


25 The Happy Dispatch. 


49 Mothers and Fathers. 


1 4 Robin Hood; or .the Merry 


26 An Eligible Situation. 


50 Taken In and Done For. 


! Men of Sherwood Forest. 


27 The Pet Lamb. 


51 All's Fair in Love and War 


S Little Red Riding Hood. 


28 The Last Lily. 


52 Dross from Gold. 


6 The Fr .g Prince. 


29 The Three Temptations. 


S3 Aunt J erusha's Visit. , 


7 Blue r.eard; or. Female 


30 Katharine and Petruchio 


54 The Village Belle. 


Curiosity. 


(Burlesque). 


55 Lord Dundreary's Visit. 


8 Jack, the Giant Killer. 


31 His First Brief. 


56 My Peter. 


9 Two Gentlemen at Mivarts 


32 The Girls of the Period. 


57 The Cream of Love. 


lo Dark Deeds, 


33 Matched but not Mated. 


58 The Babes in the Wood. 


II Marry in Haste and Re- 


34 Penelope Anne. 


59 Closmg of the " Eagle." 


pent at Leisure. 
12 Wearing of the Green. 


35 A Woman will be a Wo- 


60 Don't Marry a Drunkard 


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to Reform Him. 


13 The Result of a Nap. 


36 Caught in His own Toils. 


61 Furnished Apartments. 


14 Monsieur Pierre. 


37 Cousin Florence. 


62 The Harvest Storm. 


15 Virtue Victorious. 


38 Lucy's Love Lesson. 


63 Maud's Command. 


16 Love (Burlesque). 


^9 A Game of Billiards. 


64 Out of the Depths. 

65 The Poisoned Darkies. 


17 Afloat and Ashore. 


40 The Wrong Bottle. 

41 A Lyrical Lover. 


18 Tragedy Transmogrified. 


66 Ralph Coleman's Refor- 


19 Fairy Freaks. 


42 A Bad Temper. 


mation. 


20 A Medical Man. 

THE E 


43 Women's Rights. 


67 Slighted Treasures. 


Tn:ioi»iA.]V r 


) P 


RICE 15 CENTS EACl 


a. 


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38 Jack's the Lad. 


75 Mysterious Stranger. 


2 Box and Cox. 


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3 Mazeppa. 


40 Camille. 


Faustum. 


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41 Nobody's Son. 


77 De Old Gum Game. 


5 The Coopers. 


42 Sports on a Lark. 


78 Hunk's Wedding Day. 


6 Old Dad's Cabin. 


43 Actor and Singer. 


79 De Octoroon. 


7 The Rival Lovers. 


44 Shylock. 


80 De Old' Kentucky Home. 


8 The Sham Doctor. 


45 Quarrelsome Servants. 


81 Lucmda's Weddingf. 


9 Jolly Millers. 


46 Haunted House. 


82 Mumbo Jum. 

83 De Creole Ball. 


10 Villikins and hisDinah. 


47 No Cure, No Pay. 

48 Fighting for the Union. 


II The Quack Doctor. 


84 Mishaps of Caesar Crum: 


12 The Mystic Spell. 


49 Hamlet the Dainty. 


85 Pete's Luck. 


13 The Black Statue. 


50 Corsican Twins. 


86 Pete and Ephraim. 


14 Uncle Jeff. 


51 Deaf — m a Horn. 


87 Jube Hawkins. 


15 The Mischievous Nigger. 


52 Challenge Dance. 


88 De Darkey's Dream. 


16 The Black Shoemaker. 


53 De Trouble begins at Nine 


89 Chris Johnson. 


17 The Magic Penny. 


54 Scenes at Gurney's. 


90 Scipio Africanus. 


18 The Wreck. 


55 16,000 "V'ears Ago. 


91 De Ghost ob Bone Squash 


19 Oh Hush ; or. The Vir- 


56 Stage-struck Darkey. 


92 De Darkey Tragedian. 


ginny Cupids. 


57 Black Mail. [Clothes. 


93 Possum Fat. 


20 The Portrait Painter. 


58 Highest Price for Old 


94 Dat Same Ole Coon. 


21 The Hop of Fashion. 


59 Howls from the Owl Train 


95 Popsey Dean. 


22 Bone Squash, 


60 Old Hunks. 


96 De Rival Mokes. 


23 The Virginia Mummy. 


61 The Three Black Smiths. 


97 Uncle Tom. 


24 Thieves at the Mill. 


62 Turkeys in Season. 


98 Desdemonum. 


25 Comedy of Errors. 


63 Juba. 


99 Up Head. [puncas. 


26 Les Miserables. 


64 ANightwidBrudderBones 


100 De Maid ob de Hunk- 


27 New Year's Calls. 


65 Dixie. 


101 De Trail ob Blood. 


28 Troublesome Servant. 


66 King Cuffee. 


102 De Debbil and de Maiden 


29 Great Arrival. 


67 Old Zip Coon. 


103 De Cream ob Tenors. 


30 Rooms to Let. 


68 Cooney in de Hollow. 


104 Old Uncle Billy. 


31 Black Crook Burlesque. 


69 Porgyjoe. 


105 An Elephant on Ice. 


32 Ticket Taker. 


70 Gallusjake. 


106 A Manager in a Fix. 


33 Hvpochondriac, 


71 De Coon Hunt. 


107 Bones at a Raffle. 


34 William Tell. 


72 Don Cato. 


108 Aunty Chloe. 


35 Rose Dale. 


73 Sambo's Return. 


109 Dancing Mad. 


36 Feast. 


74 Under de Kerosene. 


no J ulianna Johnson. 


37 Fenian Spy. 






Either of the above w 


ill be sent by mail, on rece 


ipt of price, by 


I 


lAPPY HOURS 


COMPANY, 




No. 5 


Beekman Street, New York. 



THE 


A rf^^T'XTVrrf'^ T 




ll 


.A.V> J- Ax^ %jr JLwj:^^^-^ !▼■ ^ \ \\ 


PRICE 15 cEiJ^ ':i.?!!:l?!?l,2L..SSm 




I Single Life. 


49 Lying in Ordina 

50 The Ringdoves. 


^^^^^^^^^^^ m^^^ 




2 Boarding School. 


1 




3 The Spitfire. 


51 Camille. 


liili ffiu^^i^^^li 


1 


4 Irish Dragoon. 


52 Lady Clancarty 


1 


■ 


5 School for Tigers. 


53 Ten Nights in a ] 


illiilw""™^ All 


6 Gabrielle de Belle Isle. 

7 Tippeiary Legacy. 


t^?Si:^^^ol Taw 597 031 B ' ,| 


8 Deeds of Dreadful Note. 


ard's Life. 


104 Champaigne. i 


9 A Peculiar Position. 


56 Fruits of the Wine Cup. 


IDS H. M. S. Pinafore. 


1 lo A Private Inquiry. 
! It riFTell Your Wife. 


57 Aunt Dinah's Pledge. 


106 Family Pictures. 


58 Yankee Peddler. 


107 Prison and Palace. 


12 Fast Family. 


59 Vermont Wool Dealer. 


108 The Bailiff's Daughter. 


13 Antony and Cleopatra 


60 Persecuted Dutchman. 


109 La Cigale. 


Married and Settled. 


61 Stage-Struck Yankee. 


no Broken Promises. 


14 My Friend in the Straps. 


62 The Limerick Boy(Paddy 


Ill The Broken Seal. 


15 School for Scheming (Love 


Miles Boy). 
63 Drunkard's Home. 


112 Betsy's Profile. 1 


1 and Money). 


113 Going Through Him. 


1 16 Our Mary Anne. 


64 Bachelor's Bed-Room. 


114 Male and Female. 


17 Miseries of Human Life. 


65 Perfection(The Cork Leg). 


115 Thoughts before Marriage 


18 An Irish Engagement. 


66 More Blunders Than One. 


116 Diplomacy. j 


19 How to Settle Accounts 


67 Whisky Fiend. 


117 Our Professor. 


With Your Laundress. 


68 Quite at Home. 


118 Hurrah for Paris. 


20 Advice Gratis. 


69 Sir Dagobert and the 


119 Tittlebat a Father. 


21 A Hasty Conclusion. 

22 Weak Points. 


70 Putting on Airs. [Dragon. 


120 Cross Purposes. 


71 A Slight Mistake. 


121 Love to Music. 


23 Grace Darling. 


72 Patches and Powder. 


122 Carried by Assault. 


24 A Gray Mare. 


73 To Let, Furnished. 


123 The Locked Door. 


25 Middle Temple. 


74 The Lost Heir. 


124 Those "Cussed" Waves. 


26 The Original. 


75 Is the Man Mad? 


125 Masquerading for Two. 

126 The Love Flower. 


27 'J'he Sentinel. 


76 A Trip to Cambridge. 


28 Tiger at Large. 


77 Twenty and Forty. 

78 Hob-Nobbing. 


127 Oh, My Uncle! 


29 Why Did You Die? 


128 The Dawn of Love. 


30 Sayings and Doings. 


79 The Great Eastern. 


129 Juliet's Love Letter. 


31 Twin Brothers. 


80 Three Guesses. 


130 Bric-a-Brac. 


32 Ask no Questions. 


81 Getting up in the World. 


131 A Cousin to Them All. 1 


33 Cure for Coquettes. 


82 Wardrobe. 


132 The Wanderer's Return. 


34 Cabin Boy. 


83 Generous Jew. 

84 A Crumpled Rose Leaf. 


133 Unclejack. 


35 Who Stole the Spoons ? 


134 The Married Widows. 


36 Mrs. Gamps Tea and Turn 


85 Wild Flowers. [Ladies. 


135 Foresight: or. My Daugh- 


37 Village Doctor. [Out. 


86 Don't AllSpeak At Once, 


ter's Dowry. 


38 Family Pride. 


87 Woman Nature Will Out. 


136 Muolo the Monkey. 


39 Queen Mary. 


88 Aunt Betsy's Beaux. 


1:57 Too Windy for an Um- 


40 Three Grocers. 


89 Child of Circumstances. 


■ brella. 


41 Race Ball. 


90 Women's Club. 


138 Beauty and the Beast. 


42 Presented at Court. 


91 Shamrock. 


139 Cinderella. 


43 A Sign of Affection. 


92 The Changelings. 


140 Rosebud; or, the Sleeping 


44 Dancing Barber. 


93 Society for doing good 


Beauty. 


45 Who;s Your Friend ? 


but Saying Bad. 


141 The Princess. 


46 Charity. 


94 Matrimony. 


142 Rumplestiltskin. 


47 Wicked World, [ing Well 


95 Refinement. 


143 Skinflint. 


48 Mother and Child are Do- 

THE 


96 Master-piece. 


144 One Must Marry. 


VAPJ^IET"5r ST 


rj^OE. 


P 


RICE 15 CENTS EACH. 1 1 


I The Big Banana. 


9 Dot Madrimonial Adver- 


16 I Love Your Wife. 


2 Dot Mad Tog. 


disement. 


17 The Ould Man's Coat tails. 


3 A Gay Old Man Am I. 


10 Mulcahy's Cat. 


18 The Decree of Divorce. 


4 The Law Allows it. 


II Dot Quied Lotgings. 


19 Let Those Laugh WhoWin 


5 A Leedle Misdake. 


12 All in der Family. 


20 A Dark Noight's Business. 


6 The Spelling Match. 


13 Who Got the Pig? 


21 The Lonely Polywog of 


7 There's Millions In It. 


14 A Mad Astronomer. 


the Mill Pond. 


8 Tootle, Tootle, Too ! 


15 A Purty Shure Cure. 


22 The Dutchman in Ireland. 

1 


Either of the above w 


ill be sent by mail, on receipt of price, by 


] 


BAPPY HOURS COMPANY, 




No. 5 Beekman Street, New York. 



